


The Bodyguard

by putthycat



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bodyguard Dream, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Flirting, George is just confused rn, GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap Friendship (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern Royalty, Plot, Prince George - Freeform, Royalty AU, Slow Burn, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Lust, not for too long though, or is it? hmmm, perhaps, they're just really good friends i promise, when i get around to writing it, yes i do have an idea where this going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putthycat/pseuds/putthycat
Summary: HRH Prince George wakes up to an entirely new world. Luckily for him, part of the deal is his new head of security- Clay. But surely he can't be the only thing on George's mind, right? He's moving (palaces), His brother is MIA, his mother is crazy, and he's banned from seeing his "best friend"-stfu i swear they're just friends, i swear!- Nick. Yeah... but somehow Clay is still at the forefront. But he's not gay, right? No? That's what I thought. Couldn't be him. No chance. ;)-Dreamnotfound Royalty AU-Basically it's just the king and knight trope except I don't have enough knowledge about swords and armor to write that so it's set in modern day instead.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 163
Kudos: 252





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I guess this is my first fanfic ever. I am definitely on my Royalty AU brain rot phase of quarantine rn. I really enjoyed writing this, but this first chapter was produced in one 24hr rush of inspiration so I sure am tired now.
> 
> Something to note: I do love these CCs but I obviously don't ship the real life people. Tbh, I am really only using their names and some defining traits about them (nationalities, visual descriptions, potentially specific interests but we'll see). But their personalities are not meant to be based on the real people at all. 
> 
> Things I reference:  
> PPO: Personal Protection Officer  
> Sovereign Grant: Basically just the royal family's money, but i looked it up and it has a fancy name.
> 
> I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it! :)

Slivers of light were just beginning to make their way into the room through the heavy drapes when that god awful noise started.

George stirred, jerking up only to immediately regret it. The pounding was louder now, but whether it was coming from his own head or the ornate doors across the room, he couldn’t tell. 

“God damn it,” his eyes squinted to survey the scene around him. He realized he was curled up on an overstuffed ottoman rather than in his bed. Where he should’ve been, Nick was tucked, as comfortably as one could be while asleep fully dressed, slumbering under his duvet. 

George’s face dropped as his gaze fell upon himself in the mirror by the wardrobe. He was _wrecked_. His dark hair stuck out at all angles, and as he tried to quickly fix it he shied away from his own hands in pain. He could see it now, a nasty bruise stood prominently on his temple. His fingers, sticky with god knows what moved next to rebutton his white dress shirt. Well, it was white at some point. Presently, it was tinged an unsightly gray, a bit stiff from the hours of sweat poured into it. The hem as well, untucked from his trousers, was stained with beer. It would just have to do, he reasoned, as the knocking on his door grew ever more ferocious, and he heard a familiar frustrated sigh of his PPO. It would just have to do…

George’s breath hitched as his fumbling hands froze, paralyzed at his throat.

Bright red lips. All over his collar, all over his skin. George felt his cheeks reddening in embarrassment, in anger, as he wallowed in his poor luck. The only person who could be this determined to get him up at what, 6? Sorry, 4:30? His head spun back to squint furiously at the clock on his wall, barely illuminated in the dim light; the only person who would have the nerve to wake him, His Royal Highness Prince George at such an ungodly hour, was his mother, Her Majesty the Queen.

His snowy fingers rubbed frantically against his neck, only smudging the incriminating evidence to oblivion. But had he- did he? “What fucking happened last night?” George groaned into the expansive room, his clean-up efforts rewarding him with rosy-tinted fingers. Great, if he didn’t hurry the hell up he would be caught, literally, red-handed, fantastic. If he wasn’t so hung-over, George would’ve smirked at the bitter irony of it.

“If you aren’t out here in two minutes I have orders to break this door down and drag you out myself!” His PPO stopped knocking momentarily to threaten him.

“S-alright, I’ll be ready in a second.” George slurred loudly towards the door. Oh _shit_ , he wasn’t hungover, he was still fucking drunk. 

Still abashed, and with his anxiety rising by the second, he decided he couldn’t spare the time to fumble with his shirt’s buttons. His hands folded into his collar and roughly jerked it down, hell-bent on getting the amorous stains away from him, more than eager to forget. The early rays of dawn weaved through his hair, the furrow of his brow, and dappled his chest artistically. It was bare now, pale and glistening with the sweat of a body desperately trying to detoxify itself. He tried to ground himself in the steady heaving of his breast as it rose and fell with effort.

“Wow, that was fucking hot Georgie.” Nick looked at him with a wicked, teasing grin, propped up in his bed.

George whirled on him at once, abandoning all sense. “Give me your shirt.”

A flash of confusion instantly crossed Nick’s face but his tone was light, “what the hell are you on about now? I know I’m irresistible to all women but you’ve never given into my charms, my southern hospitality-” he turned groaning, in response to the thunderous knocks at the door, “we’ve been asleep for what, an hour? Did I miss the world fucking ending out there? Jesus, George, who did you piss off so badly…” His voice trailed off, deafened perhaps by the knocking, or more likely, by the sight of a shirtless prince making his way towards him, stumbling over his own feet in exasperation and evident drunkenness.

George was determined though, and he loomed over the bed, concealed in shadow. “You moron, I have to go see my mother right this goddamned minute, and my shirt is ruined and- and- _and_ you’re one to talk about hospitality when you’re sleeping in _my_ bed in _my own_ fucking palace. The least you can do is lend me your shirt.” George fell upon Nick clumsily, reaching to pull his shirt off.

Nick easily captured his wrists in his hands and stopped his descent. “The hell is wrong with yours? I’m not giving you mine just because you decided to have a little Narcissus moment in front of that poor mirror over there.” He glanced back to nod at the mirror but his eyes caught the lipstick smeared down George’s neck instead. He noted where it stopped, cut off right where a shirt collar would’ve fallen, and he chuckled, “Oh.”

Nick released his wrists and pushed back on George’s bare chest. Paired with the undeniably strong force of his shove, and what George would like acknowledged- the chill of his hands- he fell back, startled. He lunged forward, pitifully desperate to get at his shirt and answer what he knew was an increasingly annoyed PPO at the door. The cacophony of knocking still had not ceased. Unfortunately for him in his inebriated state, George’s movements were slowed, languid, and Nick leaned over him quickly, forcing him to relax back against his downy comforter.

He laughed again, and George thrashed under him, consumed with the need to just get Nick’s damn shirt on his back, and his ass out the door. His breath halted as Nick’s hand reached for his neck, trying to inspect the damage, the fallout of greasy red mistakes that marked him. George’s eyelashes fluttered involuntarily at the contact in a brief moment of weakness. Nick saw it though, he knew him too well; the crescendo of knocks on the doors matched the crescendo of nerves that rose in George’s stomach as Nick bent further over him, felt his lips graze his ear. “Nice work, Georgie, maybe you can finally give the queen that heir she’s always on about. If…”

Bang!

The door to George’s room flew open as his entire PPO team flooded the room. And behind them, coughing expectantly, was his handler. Though they were all trained not to react to the prince’s proclivities, brows were raised as they took in the scene. Empty bottles of liquor strewn capless on the floor, intermingled with shoes, and twisted bedsheets. But that was not what captured anyone’s attention that morning. No, not even close. All stares rested on their prince, sweaty, with his legs thrown open, another man between them, pinning him to his own bed, in _his own_ fucking palace.

——————————————

George splashed cool water on his face in the bathroom and used a nearby towel to wipe off the remaining lipstick from his neck. It was too little too late, but at least his handler had given him this small courtesy before he had to face his mother. 

He shuddered at the thought, and his mind began replaying all of the things that she had likely already been informed of. He couldn’t even bring himself to look in the mirror, he was too ashamed. “But at what?” He questioned himself. It was all just a massive misunderstanding, wasn’t it? Perhaps his handler would be kind, the PPOs wouldn’t gossip. As platonic as the moment they walked in on _absolutely_ was, the intimacy was stifling. The entire situation had felt like some foolish adolescent admission. George slammed a fist into the marble countertop, seething. He was not in the mood to explain away the debacle to his mother when it was she who had inadvertently caused it.

Rage flourished along with the pain that shot through his wrist. Flashes of memory flicked through his mind as he tried to compose the story he would tell her. Nick, being roughly pulled off of him by several overeager PPOs; his head sideways against the floor as one held the back of his neck. His handler roughly grabbing his forearm, hard enough to bruise, and tugging him out the door as George protested his shirtlessness. The handler had practically shouted in aggravation, wheeled around, and walked back into his room, ripping the shirt off of Nick’s back before throwing it in his face.

Then there was the car ride over. The deathly silent drive from Kensington to Buckingham. George settled into Nick’s overly large, and overly blue shirt. His heart twinged with guilt as he remembered the loud exhale that had been forced out of Nick’s chest as he was pinned down. He would have all those PPOs fired if it was the last thing he did. His handler, Anthony, watched him, judgmentally, over the corner of his laptop, as he furiously typed out god knows what to god knows who. Well, George knew who- his mother. 

He groaned as the weight of his mistake… _mistakes_ settled on his slumping shoulders. The partying, the drinking, the-the lipstick. George still had no fucking clue where that came from, and that was a big issue. He couldn’t care less about the legality of it, the hellish consequences of an unsigned NDA, no, it was his frivolity that shocked him. Just making out with some girl in a club? “I don’t do that,” George responded to himself. He wasn’t gay or anything, not that he had a problem with people who were. Members of the royal household just found heterosexuality as obligatory as their stake in the Sovereign Grant. 

Truthfully, George had always feared relationships, latching on to the strict traditions of courtship to grind the process to a halt. He certainly did not care to acknowledge that these were some of the only traditions he followed as a prince. Though, one time in his youth, he had written in a journal, brain fuzzy off just a few sips of wine, that he never wished to king some girl’s queen, lest he be as miserable as his parents.

George’s hand rushed over his clammy skin and lay on the back of his neck. He recoiled in disgust as he processed the sheen that had collected at the base of his head. He finally caught his gaze in the mirror as he looked over his sorry state. He was pale, sickly so, and his eyes were set above deep amaranthine circles. Water mixed with sweat dripped from his hairline, inconveniently accenting the mysterious, darkening bruise by his brow bone. He sparkled with exhaustion as his breaths grew more shallow in his chest. 

His conscious and subconscious, both, had overworked him into a state of frenzy. He tried to grab the edge of the counter, but his trembling fingers only slipped and bounced off the edge. George stood, shaking, and hyperventilating, eyes frozen to himself in the mirror. He felt anything but regal. He was a _mess._ A fucking _disappointment._

A sharp knock on the bathroom door and a muffled “hurry the hell up,” broke his hysteric trance. George leaned over, gripping his knees, trying to catch his breath before the final descent to his inevitable demise. He took a few deep breaths to bring himself back to reality. The water, still running, was like white noise and he felt his eyelids begin to droop. He hated feeling like this, but right now the anxiety was the only thing keeping him awake. His body swayed backward, and he fell, gracelessly, into the wall behind him. “Ouch, oh fuck me!” George grimaced as the smarting pain in his back initiated the dull ache of a full body hangover.

Suddenly, something drew his attention to the corner of his eye. As he began to unfold himself from his doubled over position, he noticed something small, and cylindrical fall from his- well, Nick’s- shirt pocket and roll under the gaudy vanity. George’s eyes widened in shock. Was that- “Is that?” It was a vial of coke. Picked up somewhere along the way last night, or perhaps coyly dropped into Nick’s pocket by some club girl hoping to bed an oil baron’s son.

George dropped to the floor, immediately fishing it out from under the cabinets. Both hands clenched around the tiny tube, as he drew it close for inspection. By the time he had stood up, George had already made up his mind what to do with it. If it was _any_ other day, _any_ other situation, he wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have; he repeated it to himself like a prayer. But more real, more tangible, was the white powder, encapsulated between his piously poised hands. He had been sober, from the drugs at least, for _years._ Surely, this wouldn’t push him over the edge… surely. 

Sobriety seemed decidedly minuscule compared to the bind he was in now, and George’s nimble fingers fumbled, racing to pull off the cap and empty the contents onto the counter next to the sink. He pulled a bill from his back pocket and impatiently formed the small pile into three straight lines. He was so eager that he stopped himself for a moment, jerking his gaze back up to the mirror. Mirror George stared sadly at the real George, who looked positively deranged. Real George quickly shook his head and the two were in sync once more.   
Just to be sure though, he faced himself down to tell mirror George off, “ _No,_ you don’t get it, I _need_ this, just to get through this meeting, with that…” he paused for a minute before spitting out, “bitch.” Whether he was addressing his mother, or himself he didn’t know and frankly didn’t care to consider.

He glanced bleakly at the bill in palm before he began rolling it up. The queen, his mother’s face stared blankly past him. He resisted the rising urge to crumple it up and lowered his head to the lines that waited for him. 

He had forgotten about the burn, George had remembered it more like melting, as the coke careened into his bloodstream. It was fine, this would work anyway. The lines were gone in seconds, and he didn’t even need a moment to collect himself before he swung open the bathroom’s door. Greeted by his handler’s raised fist descending on a second perturbed knock, George brushed past him briskly, striding down the hallway towards his mother’s apartments. He was ready for her.

———————————————————

He was not ready for her. But to be fair to him, no one really could be. Not even a coked up Goliath could take that woman- and George was certainly not that- he was just coked up. He entered the first room of her apartments and found her seated at a long table, surrounded by newspapers. She was holding toast but chewing on her cheek. It was a tell that one might mistake for anxiety- a sign of weakness- but she had none. George felt like Nick’s cold hands had shoved him back again when he noticed, this wasn’t going to be good for him.

“Mother.” He greeted her through clenched teeth, still frozen by the door.

“Sit.” She nodded towards a chair diagonal from her head at the table without making eye contact. She was hooked to her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard.

George scoffed and approached her, warmed by the powdery confidence that flowed through his veins. “Must I really be up at this hour? What could be so important that my handler had to burst in and fucking assault me this morning just to get me here?” He would not be sitting down, he didn’t feel like it.

The queen’s eyes snapped up in an icy glare as he cursed. “George, this _is_ important. It is a matter of your safety-” He cut her off, and threw up his hands in faux despair.

“ _My_ safety? Oh, that’s rich considering the way Nick and I were manhandled by your goons.” 

She slammed her hands down on the table, and all the china on the table shook from the force. “You know what George? Let’s have it your way then. Let’s talk about Nick.” 

He leaned over the table and saw that some of the newspapers on it were tabloids. There he was on the front page, living it up in some club with Nick; damn, how were they _this_ fast? With one arm he swiped the papers nearest to him onto the floor dramatically, and he watched his mother roll her eyes in disdain. “Oh Jesus, Mum, nothing is going on with Nick and me, we’re just friends. We’ve only ever been friends. The press can speculate all they want but that’s just how it is.” 

His mother seethed, her mouth turned down in a snarl. “I don’t care how it is George- I care how it fucking looks.” He felt his jaw unset in humiliation as she stood and swiveled her laptop around displaying an image full screen. “Anthony sent me this- and this George- _this_ is how it fucking looks.” It was a picture of the boys as they had been 40 minutes ago: George, surprised, firmly held to his bed by his own desire, restrained by the neck. Nick was hunched over his half naked body and between his legs, a hungry look in his eyes. When the _fuck_ did he even take that photo?

George saw red. He spun around searching for his handler in the vast room and screamed, “Anthony, you goddamn perv, why the hell would you take that? You know that doesn't mean anything, you fucking c-”

His voice was undercut by the blade of his mother’s condescension, “It is _your own_ poor choices that got you in this situation, George.” She smiled at him curtly and knowingly tapped at a newspaper that was settled in front of her. The cover was a blown-up picture of him partying last night in his white shirt… lipstick, glaringly obvious on the collar. George inhaled sharply, it had all been for fucking nothing.

She continued, “And if you weren’t in such a- _state_ ,” she gestured at him in disgust, “maybe you would’ve noticed that Phil wasn’t among my goons this morning either.” She sniffed, and he could’ve sworn it was in amusement.

George’s eyes widened. He could feel his heart beating under the bruise on his forehead, “You didn’t. If you’ve fired him…”

“I didn’t.” She conceded, “he’s retired.” She sighed passively, and said in a weary tone, “George he’s been your head PPO for your entire life and you didn’t even bother to thank him, let alone remember his last day. You are out of control,” The feigned concern in her voice abandoned as she hissed out the last bit. “He let you get away with too much anyway.”

George felt something begin to break. The blood coursing within him slowed as he realized they had stood there in silence long enough for some of the high to wear off. He sagged against the back of a chair as he just stared, shaken, into his mother’s calculating eyes. 

He watched the realization dart across her face, she was _this_ close to getting to him. She sat; asked expectantly, in a way that made it not a question, “Are you ready to sit now.”

But he would not. Where the high dissipated, aggression, at really no one in particular, remained. George clutched the head of an overly elaborate chair so stiffly that his knuckles went white. “No.”

Suddenly, her demeanor hardened in a way he had seen before, but couldn’t quite place. To be honest, it scared him. He couldn’t stomach losing to just one of her glares though so his voice preceded hers, “What?”

“It’s your brother.”

His harshness flayed her unexpectedly soft tone. He watched as her head collapsed, defeated, into her open palms. Her small body quivered in her chair, and she heaved out, “Alistair is gone.” 

_What?_ “What?!” George sputtered out, “What the hell do you mean gone?”

His mother looked blearily up at him, and for the first time, he noticed the soft wrinkles by the corners of her eyes. “His plane went down over the Pacific last night, and we haven’t had contact with him since…” her voice trailed off into a tight sob. George finally sank into the chair he had clenched in his grasp, his high completely forgotten. “Is he, is he, is he-” dead? It was the most important question. Alistair had always been his scapegoat, George would never be king as long as he was alive to be next in line for the throne, as long as he was alive. 

But just as quickly as she had crumbled, his mother had recomposed herself. “No, of course he’s not dead. It’s all just a miscommunication. A _massive_ inconvenience, really.” She prattled on, leaving George to play catch up with what was apparently _not_ shared grief. “Your father has left his climate change summit for the Indian Ocean base to sort the whole thing out. But early reports _have_ indicated foul play. So, hey! Listen!” George’s eyes had glazed over in shock, and he stared at the remaining newspapers on the table. Those not containing his face showed his brother’s, many with large print announcing ‘Missing!’ How the hell could he have missed them before?

Anxious for more information, George shrugged off the haze and turned to face her. “I am,” he said indignantly. It was childish, a complete forfeit to any power he could’ve hoped to maintain during the meeting, they both knew he hadn’t been.

“Fine then. As I was saying, we are not taking this lightly. This is not just an attack on Alistair but the entire family. We’re tightening our security, and _you,_ you’re moving back to Buckingham.”

“The hell I am!”

“This is not up for debate George. You are moving in here today.” The queen bridged her hands, fingertip to fingertip.

George shot up from his chair, towering over her once more, threatening to leave right then. “The PPOs don’t even work in Buckingham, they’re always with me. Kensington is what they know.”

“Oh please, George, don’t act like you know any of them. The only one that you ever liked was Phil, the rest changed, _often_ might I add, at your whim.” She rolled her eyes once more, “you specifically expressed your discontent with your PPOs this morning so they can be replaced, reassigned, whatever. Handpick them for all I care. But I’ve taken the liberty of choosing your new head security agent. And he-” she paused to motion at one of her assistants, “he is not exchangeable.” 

One of the doors behind her swung open as her declaration ended. And then George saw him. The blonde man entered, regarded him with piercing viridescent eyes, and leaned over the arm he had laid across his waist. “Your Majesty, Your Highness. It’s an honor.”

George flinched in confusion at the man’s accent. It was… American? He approached him, and he felt his mother stand behind him in a respectful, if distant, greeting. “Surely you’re joking mother. He’s not nearly old enough, right? This is who you chose to replace Phil? Does he even have any experience?”

The young man bristled under the scrutiny and spoke directly to George in his fascinating accent. “I can assure you I do have experience, quite a lot actually. Queen Helena did choose me herself, which should be evidence enough.” 

She approached the two men sensing the tension between them. “Yes, George? This is Clay, your new head of security. I have every faith in his ability. And do know, _darling_ , that he has plenty of experience. Though, he has no obligation to tell you what that might be.”

_Oooh, mysterious._

George wanted to throttle someone. Though he didn’t know if it was his mother, Clay, or the increasingly intrigued voice in the back of his mind. 

“But, he’s, he’s-” George glowered at him, and a whisper of a smile danced across Clay’s face- or did it? “He’s so young! How can you be so confident in him?!” He whined, and his renewed exhaustion brought him dangerously close to stamping his foot. 

Helena was more than pleased to answer, “George, I understand that from your viewpoint Clay’s competence might come into question since you’re both the same age. But you must understand that is _your_ viewpoint, and you have proven yourself completely incompetent, have you not?” She pointed to her open laptop, where George was still pinned down, and he couldn’t control his blush as Clay raised his eyebrows at it. “If he is, and by default he must be, more competent than you, then it will be enough.”

“Oh, and Clay? About Nick who you see there,” Clay coughed, pulling his eyes from the screen to meet hers. “Yes?”

“He is not to have contact with George.” Clay raised his eyebrows once again, _why_ was he _always_ doing that? 

“Ehm- of course, Your Majesty, that’s fine then.”

“WHAT?!” George exploded. “You can’t be serious. He’s my best friend. You have to know that there isn’t anything going on between us!” Helena crossed her arms and shifted her weight from one hip to the other.

“While I can’t speak on the quality of your relationship-”

“ _Friendship._ ” Clay’s eyes darted from George’s face to his boudoir photo, and back to his face. He smirked. George blushed again, _damn it._

“Yes, fine. While I can’t comment on that, I do have distinctive knowledge of foreign policy. And George, you being _best friends_ with the son of a mysterious American billionaire will not be particularly helpful should we need to call on our allies in the event of a war.”

George rested one of his hands on the back of his neck, rubbing it in irritation. “Mum, Nick’s father isn’t even involved with the U.S. government, he spends all his time in Texas, where the oil is. Who cares if he’s American? Clay is too.” 

The aforementioned man jumped slightly at the first direct address George had given him. “Oh, I’m a U.K. citizen actually, my accent is only like this because I lived in America for the first twelve years of my life.”

Helena nodded at him thoughtfully, as if she hadn’t pored over his file at least a hundred times. “Indeed. George, I’m not going to bother explaining to you what you should already know about foreign policy as a prince- it’s honestly unforgivable how much you abandoned family tradition. I mean pursuing a computer science degree? I don’t even know why I allowed it. But you’re a simple fool if you don’t understand that money means power. And Nick’s father has more of both than you could imagine.”

George inhaled, almost ready to concede. He loved Nick like a brother, but Alistair was actually missing. 

His mother surprised him by reaching for his elbow and led him away from Clay, back towards the table and her cold breakfast. She quickly shut the laptop and then for the second time in one day, her formal demeanor melted. “Listen, George. Let me be the first to admit that this transition will be difficult. And I know I was part of the reason you moved to Kensington in the first place, but you need to be here now so I’m really going to try, okay? And Clay is part of that. I thought maybe it would be good for you to have someone around in Alistair’s absence. But now I’m not even sure if he’s going to last from your reaction. George, I’m trying here. So, I’m only going to ask the same from you.”

She held his arm protectively and gazed into his eyes with a look that George could only describe as love, as strange as that felt. But he could see the pain too, sensed that she was tearing herself apart with the stress of Alistair’s disappearance.

The sun was fully up now, shining through the enormous windows of the room. Light caught the chandelier that hung above them, tangled through Clay’s hair, and illuminated a tear curving down his mother’s cheek. The day had just barely started and it was already too surreal. And as much as George wanted to fight his mother, he also wanted to comfort her. 

“I’ll try,” he promised. “This all just feels like a dream.”


	2. The Scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot goes down in George's old bedroom. He's just tired and sad, you guys :(  
> More George and Nick friendship arc! A big confession, a promise that probably shouldn't be made, a lot of angst, and is that what I think it is? Internal conflict? maybeee... Also, can everyone stop knocking on doors? Nothing good is ever happening on the the other side...  
> There are some soft moments too, but this is a slow burn so we've gotta start somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, this chapter did not end up where I intended at all. I had it all planned out and then boom! Literally, this was supposed to be like 1/3 of a chapter. I'm not going to blame it entirely on the George and Nick friendship arc... but maybe a little bit. I hope you don't mind, they were actually some of my favorite parts to write so far. Honestly, I got a little emotional writing this, but I hope you like it :)
> 
> Things I reference:  
> Paradise Lost: A book by John Milton about The Fall. (technically it's a long "epic" poem about Adam and Eve being tempted, but it's long enough to be a book- so book it is)- also it's one of my favorites  
> The Fall: The temptation of Adam and Eve by Satan leading to their "fall" from paradise. (not super important for the fic)  
> Polaris: The north star  
> Macallan Fine: stupidly expensive scotch. (i looked it up and a bottle sold for like 1.9 mil one time)  
> King William IV: I don't specifically say his name but I do reference a king who almost got kidnapped by George Washington, and it's him. This guy was... not great, basically everything he did was a scandal. But a cool history fact nonetheless!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

“So you studied computer science then? That’s cool.” George’s brow furrowed in confusion as the two continued down the hallways of Buckingham. He wasn’t used to his PPOs taking any actual interest in him, Phil was the only one who ever had. Though, he supposed, this one _was_ pretty different from the others.

“I’m still studying it actually, I want to get my Masters.” He wouldn’t say any more than that, it wasn’t like he was this guy’s friend or anything. In fact, it was just the opposite since Clay was the tangible piece coming in between him and Nick.

“Ha, well I’d offer to help you study but I don’t think my English degree would do any good.” His laugh was natural but there was a twinge of insecurity behind it. He liked feeling like the smartest person in the room, and George was already challenging that. 

He smiled internally, it was going to be all too easy to get rid of this one. Sure, he had just promised his mother he would try, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to put up a fight. If he settled back into life at Buckingham, accepted the bodyguard, she would win. Soon there would be more assignments, more engagements for George to attend too. And with the engagements- engagement. The inevitability of a betrothal creeping closer as each year passed. No, he needed to keep his mother on her toes, especially in Alistair’s disappearance, so he wouldn’t be bogged down by royal responsibility. It truly was his worst nightmare, anyone realizing his capacity for the job he so loathed.

“No, it wouldn’t.” George wasn’t going to entertain this conversation any longer. They were just coming up on his old bedroom anyway. Clay moved to open the door for him, a sure sign that he would be coming in too. “No, that’s alright. I’ve got it,” George intercepted the knob and turned it, “give me a minute to get changed at least…” and he was just about to push open the door when something else clawed its way up from his stomach and past his lips, “unless you want to watch or something.” What the _fuck_ was that. It had caught them both off guard.

Clay jumped back from George like he had burned him. It looked like something _had_ too, his face was flushed crimson. “No! No. You go- go do whatever- whatever you need-” George cut him off, slamming the door in his face as he sputtered helplessly. As soon as the lock clicked, George froze. “What _was_ that?” He asked himself as he stood frozen in one spot, looking down at his shaky hands. By his feet, a book lay open-faced on the floor, a temporary placeholder, or in his case…

George knew that book. Well, of course he would, it was his room. No, he _remembered_ that book. It had fallen that way after he’d thrown it at his mother from across the room. And there it remained, a monument to his last day living in Buckingham. He jerked his head up to look at the rest of his bedroom. It was- exactly the same? George felt his stomach swirl with confusion and resurfacing memories. This was _not_ what he expected, not at all. He had almost envisioned it smoking; it was not past his mother to burn it down after the things they said to each other. The way he acted in rage. But there were no embers to be seen, and it hadn’t even been remodeled. It was completely untouched.

“What the hell,” George stated to the walls, still plastered in the maps and movie posters from his childhood. “What the hell.” This time it was for the intricate train set tucked into the corner, tracks weaving their way under the coffee table. He piled up the rest of the books from the floor until they towered precariously against his chestnut desk, “What the hell?” He questioned his spotless hands. They should’ve been covered in years of dust, and as he turned them over he realized, slightly horrified at the misuse of funds, that his mother had ordered the staff to clean his possessions as they sat. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.

Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for his phone.

—————————

“Dude that’s so weird,” Nick said on the other end, “The trains are still there? That’s so embarrassing for when you bring a girl back.” He was just teasing, but George felt an immediate atmosphere shift when he’d said that, and he hoped it was only in his head.

“Oh, and when has that _ever_ happened?” He laughed it off, “If I can’t even see you, there’s no way I’m going to be able to sneak some random girl in here. Mum is really something else with Alistair missing.” Nick had been friends with George long enough to know he wanted to talk about it.

“Listen, he’ll be back soon, yeah? You just need to take your mind off of it or you’ll drive yourself crazy… is The Stash still there?”

The Stash. If it was where they left it, it would be the remnants of an extensive, and expensive liquor cabinet the pair had collected from various “engagements” of their youth. The product of a game they’d played before George grew old enough to opt-out of formal public appearances. Nick never really had an issue with the events like he did: polo matches, galas, exhibitions, all for charity. But the last George could remember, their supply had dwindled because it just wasn’t as fun to see who could steal the most bottles when Nick had no one to compete with.

“I’m checking.” George slid off his bed positioned on the far wall and headed back towards the door. Just off to the right was a tall and hideous crystal candelabra which had almost certainly not been used in the last two hundred years. It was in stark contrast to the rest of his room, shiny and exuberant, and he remembered it had been his mother’s pièce de résistance when he had insisted on redoing his room. “It’s for history, George!” So he got his “depressing” navy walls and simple furniture along with a convoluted candlestick and a gold-framed portrait of some king who had nearly been kidnapped by George Washington.

His attention was drawn to what was behind it though, and he bent down, phone crunched between his ear and neck, reaching out for the wall panel. It would’ve been indiscernible to anyone but George and Nick, and before he pushed it open he stopped to grin at the foolish greasy fingerprints that their younger counterparts had left behind on the paint. He held his breath as it swung open, and his eyes scanned the bottles… empty, empty, “Nick there’s no _way_ I’m drinking this.” 

They had both forgotten it, “What is it too _old_ or something?” His tone was derisive, in a moment of weakness the two had once forced down a bottle of expired Bailey’s together, there was no reason for George to act so posh now. 

“No… all that’s left is the scotch, Nick. _The_ scotch.”

There was a moment of reminiscent silence on both ends of the call before Nick burst out laughing. “That’s fantastic. _The_ scotch! You’ve gotta drink that George if now isn’t the right time I don’t know what is.” 

George protested, “We said that we’d do it together!” This bottle was important, despite having the highest price tag to ever grace their collection, the value lay in the bond it had formed. They’d both seen each other from a distance at events ever since they could remember. But, when he was 13 and Nick was 12-“and a half! C’mon he’s barely older than me”- Nick had caught him about to abscond with _the_ scotch. It wasn’t a forgotten bottle of Johnnie Walker snatched off the wet bar. No, it was Macallan Fine, displayed in a glass case, and it was about to be rewarded to some old man who’d had the millions to drop at a charity auction.

“I think my dad won that,” Nick had said offhandedly as if George wasn’t about to swipe a two million dollar bottle of liquor. He whipped around, almost dropping it, as his mouth searched for excuses that didn’t exist. “Can I help?”

“What?” His accent was sharp against the other’s drawl.

“If you’d let me help you steal it, I’d tell you that my dad is going to be here any second to collect that… and you should probably get out of here.” A brief look of skepticism crossed Nick’s face as George remained immobile, unresponsive out of fear and genuine surprise. But the adrenaline coursing through him snapped like a rubber band against his temple and he shook his head, enlivened. 

“Can- can you create a diversion? I’ll try to get a head start.” He’d spoken to the boy without his usual princely air, making him one of the first people to see him with his guard down. It hadn’t been his first choice, but they’d already moved past the vulgar exploitation of wealth, and the vulnerability that the absurd situation had forced felt nice. It was something that money couldn’t buy. 

Presently, George sighed through the phone into Nick’s tinny laugh. “Dude no, this is perfect. My dad refused to take me to charity stuff for _months_ after that. He was _so_ mad that he could never pin it on us.” It was true, though the billionaire had suspected the pair were the culprits, and rightly so, he didn’t dare push an investigation on the crown. So Nick had been banished from him, and the two were only able to bury the hatchet when George had sent him a personal invitation to his fourteenth birthday party, eager to show him where he had hidden the hallowed bottle. When it’d been revealed to Nick, he received a confused look, “you didn’t drink it?”

“Not without you!” George had exclaimed, perplexed at the thought. And that, as they say, was that.

“Nicholas, you’re completely wrong, if you’d just look at the logic-” he began his retort, only to be immediately rebutted.

“Oh god, Georgie you know I’m too pretty for computer talk. All I’m saying is you’re completely alone in that palace, _not even_ the one you like, and everything is falling apart. I’m not going to be mad if you drink _the_ scotch. Your life is _so hard_ …”

George groaned, but appreciated the laugh that rolled through him. It was nice to get his mind off of everything. “Hey! I’m not completely alone, mum did assign me a new head of security.” Well, everything but _that_.

Immediately the other boy jumped in, concerned, “Oh shit, Phil’s gone? I wondered where he was this morning.” 

“Yeah… he retired I guess.”

“Yeah, George? You there? Listen, you have my full permission to crack open that scotch and go wild… it- it really seems like you need it enough for both of us right now.” Nick knew how much Phil had meant to him. How he’d adopted an unpaid fatherly position along with his hired job.

George inhaled a wet and shaky breath that neither acknowledged, “I mean I probably will at some point, but mum has ordered the whole fucking palace dry right now so we can all be on ‘high alert’- we’ve got quite the nightmare scenario brewing over here.”

“What? That’s total bullshit. Your mom takes her coffee with sugar and brandy.”

“Shut the hell up…” George hissed, and Nick could hear his smile even over the phone, “First of all, it’s a goddamn state secret that the queen doesn’t drink tea. And secondly, it’s only in retaliation for last night. Believe it or not, she was _not_ a fan of your shirt at our meeting this morning. I can send that back to you if you want, where are you right now?”

“Dude, we’ve both got a million of them, keep it. I’m on a plane back to Texas, and send your PPOs my kisses for literally walking me up the runway to my jet, it was _much_ appreciated.” George groaned again, embarrassed. “Um, by the way, did you see… there was something in the pocket and-”

“The coke?”

“Oh yeah… did you?”

“I did.” George felt his heart pound against his ribs as he caught himself on the wall next to him. He took a breath before he stood up and crossed the room towards the emerald velveteen couch that sat in front of the coffee table. As he settled back into it, Nick spoke again cautiously,

“No, that’s ok, I get it, you’ve got a _lot_ going on right now…” he paused, expecting George to cut in. The other held his tongue though, waiting to see how big the hole he was digging was going to be. “Yeah, a _lot_ going on, but you’re ok right? Like, you know what I’m asking I think, your past is- it’s-” When he began to stammer George finally decided to relieve his suffering,

“If you’re asking if I’m deep within the throes of relapse Nick, then no, I’m not. I’m _completely fine_ , it’s been _years_. Really, I’m alright.” The gentle static between them grew tensely unsure.

Nick spoke hurriedly, voice laced with anxiety, “Oh great! I’m glad George. Listen, I mean you should still go easy but if you need anything else, I’ve got stuff…” He spoke the last part as a question, desperately wishing he could shove it back in the second it registered what he’d promised. 

Voices at his door forced George to end the call in haste despite the strange note it resonated on. “Oh- um, thanks I guess, maybe. I’ll text you later. Bye Nick!” He hung up the call and rushed to conceal _the_ scotch he’d been cradling in his arms.

———————————

Just as he’d composed himself, the lock turned and his door swung open. Clay entered with a woman. His mother’s assistant. “That was locked, how the hell did you get in here?” George asked, indignant. 

“Key,” Clay responded simply, and he looked like he might have something to add, but the assistant interrupted him.

“Your Highness, I’m here to let you know that Her Majesty has confirmed your attendance at the WWF Gala Charity Ball in Geneva this coming weekend-”

“Jesus, what is it, a gala or a ball? Do _they_ even know the difference, or is that why they used both in the title?” Clay cut her off, eyebrows raised, shaking in amusement.

“Sorry, what? She wants me to go where? I’ve been back for twenty minutes and she’s already parading me around? I thought we were on lockdown.” He crossed his arms and regarded the assistant with a look that would’ve turned her to stone had she not been a veteran to the family’s antics.

“Well, it _is_ in Switzerland, so Her Majesty is confident that no harm will come to you while you’re away. And,” a pause to raise her chin in arrogance- it was straight out of his mother’s playbook- “She’d like me to remind you as well it is highly important that your family present a united front even in times like these. The crown must not fall.” She handed Clay a thick folder before turning on her heel, leaving them alone. He opened it and sighed.

“What?” George snapped, and he fell backward, irked, onto the couch, crossing his arms behind his head. 

Clay continued flipping through the pages at random, biting his lip in concentration, _oh, that was kind of pretty_ , “Nothing… she’s just testing me.”

George had developed a case of butterflies, though he couldn’t quite say from what. “How do you mean? What do you know?”

“Nothing.” The folder was closed in an instant, safely tucked away in his jacket. His head darted up, but his eyes moved slowly in meeting George’s, and when they finally did, they shined with guilt. Another sigh.

George sat up, back straightening with authority. “Clay, tell me what you know.” He spoke precisely, he’d thought it was obvious that it was no longer a request.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” He was on his feet now. “I’d have thought you’d know the difference with an English degree.” It was risky antagonizing the man he didn’t know yet, but risk didn’t matter to him on days like today.

It worked though, Clay was flustered again, enough to spill the secret. He scoffed, but it was in defeat. “Fine, whatever. If you have to know, this is the first event I’ll be working in this position and Nick is going to be there as well. Your mother is clearly testing me.” George hummed in agreement as he continued, “It’s just- I thought this job was going to be easier, at least for now, with you all locked up in your tower.” He’d drastically misconstrued the atmosphere, lured in by perceived sympathy. The smirk ripped from his face when he saw the smoldering fury in George’s dark eyes.

The prince seized up, and as his jaw ticked in ire he was- for a moment- even scarier than his mother. “I’m sorry that your job isn’t _easy_ for you. It’s a damn shame, _really_. I suppose I can relate, mine isn’t a _fucking cakewalk_ either!” Spit glossed his lips as the words hurdled out. It was tragic to see something so beautiful spoiled by such anger, Clay thought. “But when they pay us for this, _Clay_ , they’re paying you a salary, and me a settlement. You- you can go home but this is my fucking life Clay! My fucking _life_.” 

George was shorter than him, but at that moment Clay felt minuscule. Absolutely powerless. And he was sickened, but it was by himself. He didn’t know why, but something in his gut _ached_ for the prince. It had started as a subdued desire to be liked, but now… the feeling was… dangerous. He pinched the bridge of his nose in desperation, searching for words that could fix everything, “That’s not what I meant.” It had come out hard, unapologetically defensive. _Damn it_. 

George sneered, his gaze was hellfire. “No, it’s fine. I _know_ what you meant, and I’m going to let you off easy this time. Normally, I’d make you get on your knees and thank me for the grammar lesson but you can just leave instead. Fuck off. Get out.” His face was red with more than just the effort of rage, he had _not_ meant it like that.

“I- I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight for more than five minutes. It’s your mother’s orders.” 

“Fuck!” George shouted at the wall. He’d turned away from Clay and threw himself on his bed in exasperation. He wanted to argue, but their quarrel was done. This was between him and his mother now, and there was no way she’d budge on it. “What the hell am I supposed to do then, if you’re just looking over my shoulder all the time?”

“I don’t know… you could read?” Clay had shifted his attention to the mountainous stack by the door to ease the tension. He stiffened a bit at the unintentional irony.

But he had nothing to say except, “Whatever.” He rolled his eyes and Clay tossed over the top one in the stack. _Paradise Lost._

“It’s a good one,” he explained, clearly in his element, “it’s about The Fall.” And if George had caught the joke he didn’t let on.

George had. And it annoyed him to admit that if he wasn’t so fucking pissed he probably would’ve laughed, so he didn’t. It was his type of humor though, intelligent, drawn-out, and at the expense of his mother. He swallowed a smile as he mimicked his mother’s assistant internally, “even at a time like this, the crown must not fall…” _The Fall_. It was quite good. 

What the _fuck_ , was he mad at him or not?!

Lounging against a swath of pillows, he crossed his legs and opened the book. It was all but a few minutes before he felt eyes on him. He lowered the poetry to his chest and found Clay staring at him intently, sitting with an arm thrown carelessly over the back of the green settee. 

“What?” He questioned. Some of the hostility between them had dissipated, but George didn’t care to admit how quickly he’d melted. Yeah, Clay was a dick, but it was nice having someone toss him books. Even nicer when that someone could match- no, surpass- his literary intelligence. The kind of someone he could probably lose hours with, while they studied grievously expensive first editions and waxed poetic. He was dying for that, _with him_. NO! WHAT? Clay must’ve seen the whisper of fear flick across his face even from the other side of the room. “Do you want me to read out loud or something? Is this job too boring for you too?” 

Clay’s pitifully hopeful eyes confirmed it. “That’s it,” George said, in an ambiguous tone. “I’m going to the bathroom. What’s the deal with that? You don’t need to follow me in there too, right?” The man on the couch looked positively crestfallen for a solitary moment before irritation was hastily slapped over it.

“No- I guess, just piss fast.” Once again, it came out impatient and harsh. But this time he’d meant it to. In the time it took George to get off his bed and walk towards the bathroom he’d felt _it_. The beginnings of the same subtle slip that had damned him once before. He wouldn’t allow it to take more than it already had. Suddenly, the door behind him shut loudly reminding him to breathe, and he was left alone in the room, air heavy with George’s departing, “Whatever.” 

———————————

For what it was worth, George had felt it too. And he was fucking spiraling. 

“George?” Nick was worried about him, he’d picked up on the first ring. 

He slid his back down the wall and pressed his burning cheek against the marble. “Yeah, it’s me,” he was speaking too fast, but if he slowed down he’d have to think, something he didn’t want to do right now. “Guess what?”

“Are you ok, George? You sound kind of out of breath.”

_Shit_. He could’ve wrung out the concern that was dripping from his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just-” he looked around wildly for an excuse, “swimming?” He finished, cringing at the horrible lie, as the inspirational drop dripped from the faucet.

“Um, ok. You’re not hungover?”

He shouldn’t lie again. “Not really,” and it was the truth. It was there at one point, but it had long since been shuffled away as George tried to compartmentalize the events of a day that wasn’t even over yet. 

Nick groaned, “Damn. I wish I had your liver right now. I don’t know then, what am I guessing?”

George had relaxed a bit at the sound of his voice, Nick was one of the only reliable constants in his life. Him and money, though he vastly preferred the former. “Mum’s decided to challenge someone other than me, for once in her life. So, I’m going to the WWF gala- whatever- in Geneva at the end of the week. You know I hate that shit, but with you there that new PPO-”

Nick was roaring with laughter, “that poor fucker. He- he’d never have a chance.”

George had to slap a hand over his mouth and get up to turn on the tap so Clay wouldn’t hear his stifled snort.

“That sounds really fun George, but I’m not even sure I can make it to that after all. I’ve got a family thing and-” 

“No.” He hadn’t even considered this. “No way. You need to go. I’m not doing this shit without you. I- I can’t.” His voice was low, and something ached in his throat. 

“Aw c’mon Georgie, I’ve got family stuff. We both know you’ll give that poor guy hell anyway. You don’t need _me._ ” 

He threaded his fingers through his hair and took a trembling breath. It was time to get to the point of this call. “Fuck you, Nick. You fucking need to be there. I _do_ need you. And I fucking need- I fucking-”

“What is it, George?” The words were small, he’d just barely been able to breathe them out. Nick was panicking. 

As his head fell back against the wall behind him, George squeezed his eyes shut, free hand clutching at his neck in anxiety. “I fucking need you to bring me stuff ok? This is too much to deal with sober.” And it was the honesty he said it with that killed Nick; it _was_ his truth. 

The silence between them was deafening. Nick had never been able to understand his pain; it was ineffable. He’d only tried to help him through it, be the Polaris to his disoriented heart. He listened to George on the other end, breath ragged, and wondered what the hell the right answer was to his impossible question. 

Before he could respond, more pleas were spilling into his ear, saturating his conscience. “ _Please,_ Nick. Everything is fucking unknowns _all the time. You’re all I have,_ the only one I can rely on, the only one I’ve _ever_ relied on. Please, Nick! It’s all _fucking out of order_ , and I can’t lose _you too._ ” There was no hiding it now, water in a sink wasn’t going to drown out his sobs. Nick’s mouth dropped open, close to tears too when he heard a knock on George’s end, a muffled, “Are you okay in there?” 

Guessing that the intrusion spelled the end of their call, Nick hurried to cram the right words in, terrified with the finality of the moment. “I’ll try to be there George, just hang in there. I- I’ll be there! And you can bring _the_ scotch and we’ll talk this out over it, ok? Alright? Just- I’ll be there for you, and you be there for me! Okay? George?”

George had hung. He’d gotten what he’d wanted but it had cost him more than he’d anticipated. Today was _over._ He had nothing left to give.

“I’m fucking fine!” He shouted at Clay and slammed his phone against the counter. The last thing he needed was _another_ fucking person bursting through a door today. 

——————————

A minute later he emerged, though the extra time hadn’t done him much good. Angry red marks scuffed George’s cheekbones, painted bloody sunsets under his eyes. Clay approached him awkwardly just to get another look at his downturned face, it was the kind of artwork that belonged in museums. 

The prince sat hunched over on the edge of his bed, and it was only when he covered his face with his hands that Clay realized how he’d been looking at George. Tracing up from the dip of his palms, the clever curve of his waist… the cut of his jawline. He was going to say something, he told himself, but the longer he waited to lift the veil of quiet that had descended on the room, the longer he could just study him. 

George yanked the veil down instead. “You can leave now, I’m going to bed.” 

“It’s eleven in the morning.” _Please, not yet._

“And I got two hours of sleep last night. Get out.”

He raised his hands in defeat, but equally in truce with his warring mind. “Whatever you want, Your Highness.” It was not his _job_ to console the prince. Nor could he name why he should- he’d been nothing but horrible to him all day- but _goddamn him_ if he didn't still want to. 

When he heard the door shut, he didn’t even wait to hear the click of the lock before making a beeline over to the trapped wall panel. The scotch’s seal, the seal of Nick and George’s friendship, was broken without a second thought. His mind raced as he splayed his legs under the coffee table, carelessly derailing the trains. George’s head lulled back onto the seat of the couch and his mind stuttered when he noticed it was greener than Clay’s eyes. Something about it made him mad all over again. “Fuck _you._ ” He spat, turning his head towards the door in recompense for his absence. He’d hated the way he’d departed using his formal title, _Your Highness,_ he wanted _his name_ in Clay’s mouth… he- he wanted a lot more than that. 

He let the first swallow of liquor pool in his mouth, reveling in the sting, the hard bite under his tongue. He wished it would hurt him like he knew he deserved, for thinking like that. He wished he wasn’t awake anymore, so he wouldn't have to... 

He wished he wasn’t awake anymore.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> Alright, so remember when I specifically didn't say when I'd upload the next chapter? Or when I said I wasn't sure if I'd consistently write long chapters? Neither do I. We don't talk about it.
> 
> I am happy I got this out before Thanksgiving though because I wasn't sure if I'd have time to write much at the end of this week.  
> New chapter in the next 1-2 weeks. Shouldn't be longer than that, but I might have a slow start on this next one bc I just got four new books. I'm doing the best I can with time management, lol. Also, school- can't forget that :)  
> Next chapter will have less Nick and more Clay... so who knows? things might heat up.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> Any feedback/ideas are welcome :)


	3. The Gala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Clay are off to Switzerland!  
> Things are tense with George and, well, pretty much everyone... but he's got a plan for that. And hey! maybe he has a new friend! What does that make? Two? Oh, one? well, it's kind of a gray area. 
> 
> But maybe we can all have fun at the party, right? yeah, i mean maybe just for a minute or two ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, sooo I can't believe I thought this chapter and the last chapter were going to be one. I am so glad I didn't do that though, because I think I would've lost out on a lot of good detail. You might notice that this chapter is a little longer than the other two, and let me tell you- I wrote and rewrote this, and I really considered breaking it into two parts. But, I figured why not just do one, so I wouldn't have to keep my tabs on switzerland open for another week. I've also had the end of this chapter planned for a while and I just wanted to write it. Hopefully you like it! I worked really hard on it :)
> 
> So without further ado: 
> 
> Things/places I mention in the chapter:
> 
> Heathrow: big airport in London  
> Geneva: our main location, located in Switzerland (not near the alps so you won't hear me mention them)  
> Lake Geneva: a big lake. Geneva is just one of the cities on the coast  
> Rhone River: I don't mention this by name, but I do talk about a river, and it's this one. It connects to the end of Lake Geneva (my four years of latin are freaking out, i lowkey just thought this was from mythology, but it's real!!)  
> Beau Rivage: Lakefront hotel that George is staying at (it's real! and you can look up the royal suite if you want, i promise it's ugly)  
> Rotonde du Mont-Blanc: The lakefront park across the street from George's hotel (also real)  
> Bâtiment des Forces Motrices: A big event hall that is on the Rhone River, the gala that this chapter is based off of actually happened here in 2011 (I call it the bâtiment in the chapter which just means building in french) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The rest of the week was hell as he waited to depart for Switzerland. George was getting increasingly good at slipping out of his room, and past Clay, undetected. Traipsing down the hallways, even by the cover of night, was a good way to relearn the ins and outs of the palace he’d stricken from his memory long ago. Well, if he’d been in the right state of mind perhaps it could’ve counted as learning. However, he was really only interested in sniffing out liquor that had survived his mother’s purge. So when he woke up in the morning, in various stages of dress- or undress- back in his room, the only things he could recall were dark corners and forgotten credenzas. 

This morning was no different, George awoke-thankfully in his bed- head where his feet should be. His left arm was twisted uncomfortably on top of his back and he grimaced as he uncoiled it to push himself up, away from the damp mark his drool left on the sheets. “I’m coming!” He shouted, though his voice was sluiced with sleep. He stumbled from his bed towards the doors, and his muscles seized in apprehension. George wasn’t particularly enthused either, but his awakening hadn’t been his choice. Clay was pounding on his door for the first time in a week, and the lack of frequency- though quite appreciated- was also a good indicator that this might be something worth attending to.

He’d just made it past the emerald couch when the doors flew open, and his mother walked in briskly, Clay trailing behind her. She was much shorter than both of them, and the only way she could’ve entered first was if she had pushed past Clay and shoved the doors open herself- a scenario confirmed by her still outstretched hands. George tiredly glanced at Clay and noticed he looked rather sheepish, and strangely, was refusing to look him in the eye. It was more embarrassment than the situation called for, George thought, but the purposefully minimal interaction he’d had with him thus far didn’t provide him enough information to judge the behavior as out of character. “Good morning.” Everything about his mother gleamed against the plain backdrop of his room, and he withheld the urge to shield his adjusting eyes. “It’s a _pit_ in here, George.” Her eyes darted around, and she vaguely gestured at a desk lamp that Clay rushed to switch on. It almost amused George to see how nervous he was around her, _almost._

“Yeah… I’ve been-” a pause to squint as golden light floods the room, “I’ve been studying.” He backed up, somewhat in retreat, past the couch and coffee table and leaned against one of the sturdy posters of his bed. The breeze of the movement caught in billowy pockets of George’s shirt, and he crossed his arms, unaware that it had been open. Helena approached him, face jaunted in suspicion, and stopped at the opposite end of the settee. Well, she didn’t stop as much as she did catch herself from falling. Clay shot to steady her but the queen relegated him only able to peer at the offending object from afar with one halting hand. She lowered it after a moment, satisfied that he’d comprehended the message, and stooped down to pick up what tripped her.

George felt a fist clench in his stomach and an icy sweat break on his brow. The cleaning staff had been about _every day._ How, _how_ , did they miss _that_ for nearly a week?! “The last I checked, you were embarrassing this family by pursuing some computer degree. _Not_ with a career as a _sommelier._ ” His mother’s glow was quickly turning into a fiery rage as she regarded the empty bottle clutched in her fist. _The_ Scotch. Clay, for whatever reason, did not look surprised. George believed he’d been slick in his viceful endeavors, _he had,_ he reassured himself. Perhaps, Clay was just harder to read than he’d previously thought. 

“I- I don’t even know how that got there! It’s not mine. You know, one of the maids seems a bit of a drunk.” His array of stunning falsehoods finally grabbed Clay’s attention, and George caught him raising his eyebrows in his periphery. Mainly though, he heeded his mother, as if intense eye contact guaranteed his innocence. Instead, she set the bottle down on the table and wiped the silken lapel of her jacket in disgust, as if the lies he had spewed were tangible, and soiling. 

“Honestly, George. Sobriety is only to your benefit right now. Alistair is _missing,_ for God’s sake, do you even care?!” 

_Ah,_ there it was. This wasn’t really about him, it never was.

“Oh God, Mum, what does it really matter if I’m caged up in my room all day? Nothing is going to happen.” He threw his arms in the air with such vigor that the rest of his shirt was untucked and flapped with his motions. It might’ve been angelic if the movement hadn’t been so sudden. George hissed in pain, grabbing at his sore shoulder. 

Helena looked at him with beguiling apprehension, his dark eyes, furiously insubordinate, even as he massaged himself, struggling to wipe the wince off his face. “Clearly, something, or some _one_ -” She glanced at the ceiling while motioning to George’s pants. To his absolute horror, he found them both unbuttoned _and_ unzipped, and _quite_ open over his boxers- “has been happening.” He started to protest, but it was a weak attempt, mushy with embarrassment. “ _And,_ ” she ignored him, “even if you must waste both our time and insist nothing is awry, you’re leaving your room _today,_ for _Switzerland._ And I expect- Clay! Get over here!”

Clay had been drifting slowly back towards the open doors, in an attempt to give George some privacy. It wasn’t exactly _fun_ being told off by your mum with an audience. His pulse plucked like a harp in his throat, and his face flushed at the _loud_ realization that he’d been discovered. Somehow, it was still easier to look into the queen’s eyes than George’s though, and he let the distance between them converge to a subservient six feet. He nodded, “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Clay, I expect George’s _apparent_ sobriety to be in full effect in Geneva.” She turned back to George, “You will _not_ humiliate the Crown at this gala. Do you realize how _little_ I’m asking for here? Do you realize _how ridiculous it is_ I have to waste the time specifying _your_ behavior rather than running interference on the Alistair situation to the _whole goddamned world?_ ” 

George thought he was going to be sick. It was always the same. _Think of Alistair… Think of the Crown… Consider the history…_ He was tired of it. Exhausted. Discussing Matters of State, _especially with his mother_ , always left him with the same feeling. He was nothing more than a pawn, not considered important enough to make it to the kingship, yet still bound to the set as a sacrificial front. It wouldn’t have bothered him if that power dynamic had remained professional, there was nothing personal about being a frivolous frill on the sash of a figurehead monarchy. But it was _never not_ personal. Sovereignty had sheared the buds of healthy familial love long ago, leaving his stalks to brown and die. Alistair’s, on the other hand, were preened and trimmed, coaxed into exquisitely conditional blooms. Buckingham wasn’t a home but a greenhouse where Alistair flourished, and George scorched, sweltering. Analyzing the family’s ecosystem was not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach, and his hangover was not particularly helping him in the second department. He fell to his hands and knees and vomited. It was nothing but frothy dark liquid that wreaked of alcohol, not a speck of food in sight. 

Clay cringed in embarrassment and closed his eyes until George’s heaves were nothing but air. When he opened them, he watched the queen regard her son. Contemptuous, knowing satisfaction was all he could read, not a spot of empathy blemished her expression. Nor did she make any attempts to comfort him. Clay thought of his own mother stroking his back and holding his hair when he was ill as a child, as Helena stepped back to avoid the sick, appalled.

“You leave in eight hours. Get it together,” were the only condolences his mother offered. She whipped around and marched out, but not before shooting Clay a menacing glare that frankly, knocked the air out of him. George gasped from the floor, and he looked down at him sympathetically. _Yeah,_ the feeling was mutual. 

—————————

The jet touched down around 7:30, two hours late. George had fallen asleep amid the flurry of staff that came to pack for him. It was more people than he’d been around in weeks, and without the comforts of mind-altering substances, he’d been forced to deal with the social interaction head-on. His body’s forefront response to anxiety had long been the subject of scrutiny from his mother. She’d snap her fingers in his face, wave him back to reality and say, “It’s so rude, George. You look _painfully_ disinterested, just- stop yawning at least!” 

There was nothing he could really do though. The manufactured exhaustion poured in warm and thick, filling up his senses rather than the bustle of others around him. It was his defense, though poorly received. The first few times it happened he thought something was wrong with him, but by now he’d let his eyelids slip at important meetings, yawned in the faces of over eager ambassadors, and stumbled at parties just often enough to know what was happening. At its best, it was almost, _almost_ , like a relaxing high, but mostly it felt like it was sucking him under. He would reach out for the shining lights above him, clawing at the heavy embrace of sleep. But the fight was never fair, and he’d soon feel _the squeeze,_ the last breaths of bearing forced out of his lungs, and the next breath in would finally be the palliative sap.

It was worse when he was forced to function like that during public events which, understandably, was when they happened most often. But from the safety of his room, George could let his head tip against his silken sheets forever, mindlessly tumbling through the patterns on his curtains, or the golden scrolling edging his walls. So, he let himself be dragged into sleep, and the packing process was completely halted without his readily available opinion. Which, was honestly nonsense. He didn’t care what they packed, nor did he have any fashion expertise to offer. He’d woken up to Clay shaking him gently with one hand, asking if he was ready to go, his other arm holding back his furious handler. 

Anthony laid into both of them for their lack of respect for scheduling, and George worked on sitting up in bed as he rushed the staff back into his room. Both Clay and George watched wordlessly from an island corner as a sea of activity frothed up around them. The handler was an eddy in the middle of it all, and a pile -clearly an overabundance- of bags and cases were sat neatly by the entrance to his room in thirty minutes. “Damn,” Anthony said looking at his watch, “damn, damn, damn. It’s the middle of rush hour, it’ll be at least an hour to Heathrow.”

Even with his handler nipping at his heels and cursing his pace, George was pretty sure he’d hurried to the car that waited to whisk them to the airport. To everyone's displeasure, though it was mostly Anthony’s, they arrived at Heathrow an hour _and a half_ later, due to some horrific jam, and they were now an hour late. The trouble didn’t end there though. The jet was grounded for an additional hour when bad weather rolled in. Anthony was literally gritting his teeth when George offered, “I don’t even see what the big deal is, the ball isn’t even tonight.” 

His handler shot him a _petrifying_ glare, covered the receiver of his ongoing call, and spat, “Unless you want to deal with this absolute nightmare _yourself,_ be quiet, I’m trying to work something out,” which effectively shut George up. Clay raised his eyebrows in the seat across from him, but it was seemingly at whatever article he was reading in the newspaper on his lap.

—————————

Eventually, they arrived in Geneva, which was all that mattered. About halfway through the flight, George had started biting his fingernails. And now, he had worked through most of his cuticles. He noticed Clay frowning at him several times, but he’d never directly told him to stop. In contrast, on the car ride to the hotel, Anthony grabbed at his bloodied left hand and shut his eyes hard, as if he’d be healed when they opened again. George didn’t pay attention to the dramatization and snatched his hand back so he could keep texting Nick. 

It was short and straight to the point. He hadn’t talked to him since last week when he’d broken down. They didn’t often text, but George was desperate to keep their interactions as emotionally devoid as possible. He hated the way he’d felt that night, it was too real. 

“Are you here yet? I just landed”

“Not yet, I’ll be there around 11 tonight,” Nick replied.

George felt a wave of relief rush over him, he hadn’t been sure Nick was going to show up. His phone buzzed again and his stomach dropped. “I’m staying at the Ritz, where should we meet?” He’d known there was no way he was going to get out of seeing Nick after the stunt he’d pulled, but still, he’d hoped. 

“I’m at the Beau Rivage down the street. There’s a park across from it, is that good?” He hadn’t quite worked out _how_ he would actually get across the street, what, with his PPO team increased for international travel, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. 

“Sounds good, I can probably be there at midnight. It will be good to see you.”

“Great,” George replied and quickly shut off his phone. Then, a second later, the screen reilluminated and he sent, “Remember to bring stuff.” He shifted nervously and watched fat snowflakes melt into oily ribbons against the window of his warm car. 

—————————

As it turned out, it wasn’t hard to slip away from his room, despite it being on the top floor. He even had an excuse if he was caught, the room- if you could call it that- was sickeningly ostentatious. The Royal Suite was a monstrous five room apartment that hurt to look at. George could tell it was clearly trying to replicate his own home but failed miserably. Each room was a calamity of thick carpets and conflicting patterns. And the art? _God awful._ George was spooked each time he paced past the living room, the ridiculous bronze statues standing ominously in the dark. 

Anthony appeared along with his room service. “Good, you’re still here. Under no circumstances are you to leave unless Clay is with you. If you want to do anything tomorrow let me know, you have a few hours spare before we leave for the gala. Otherwise, I’ll be asleep in the suite downstairs and just-” he pressed his fingers into the crease on his brow, “don’t bother me, okay? Clay is in the connecting room somewhere up here if you need anything.” 

George nodded and began picking at the salad on the counter of the kitchenette- the least offending room on the whole floor. “Sleep well,” he smiled. 

His handler was caught off guard by the benevolence, George had been quiet and moody since he’d stepped off the plane. He was too tired to analyze it any further though, “Um- thanks. Good night.” 

George’s salad fork clattered to the counter the second the door shut behind him. He hadn’t known that Clay had an adjoining room to his. It threw somewhat of a wrench into his plan, depending on how close he was to the elevator, his escape could be foiled simply by the soft ‘ding’ of its arrival. The goddamned apartment also had some synthetic fragrance which was shockingly strong. George walked out onto his balcony, gasping for fresh air, just so he could think straight. The harsh wind ruffled his hair, and slushy flakes tinted spots on his shirt. He grasped the railing and leaned his weight against it, sucking in his breath in surprise at the frigid metal. In his periphery, a light on his floor clicked on. He watched a silhouette move between two windows before stopping to strip off its shirt. It had to be Clay, he was the only other person on his floor. 

Even though he was little more than a shadow, a figure projected onto gauzy curtains, George turned away, cheeks burning. _I’m getting too cold,_ he rationalized, and he went back inside, pleased. The windows Clay had occupied were the last two on the floor. Tucked behind a dining room, living room, and guest bath, there was no chance of him hearing the elevator. He wasn’t concerned with the other PPOs either, all but Clay were stashed away on another floor. He was pretty sure they’d be preoccupied with the local law enforcement anyways, the streets below were uncharacteristically clear for a tourist destination, especially when a prince comes to town. George suspected the district he was staying in had been barred from the public, at least while all the big fish swam in for tomorrow’s event. He checked his phone; two hours until midnight.

—————————

The hotel staff straightened up when George strode through the lobby, but thankfully offered no other reaction. He’d found a heathered wool coat in his luggage but had no luck with the proper boots. His oxfords left telling prints in the snow behind him as he tried not to slip crossing the street. Fortunately, the park was mere feet away, but as he approached he realized it was more of an open plaza than anything. If by some chance, Clay stepped onto the suite’s balcony he’d be seen for sure. Though, if Clay made it to the balcony he’d probably already realized that George wasn’t in the apartment to begin with.

He kept his eyes trained on his phone, confirming that this sector of Geneva was indeed shut down when he didn’t get hit by a passing car, or assaulted by a mob of hidden paparazzi.

Nick arrived a few minutes later, following the only tracks down to the snowy waterfront. He hesitated for a minute to observe his friend’s behavior, and for the first time in years, was entirely unsure how this exchange would go. George had his elbows tucked under him, resting on the granite half wall in front of the lake. His face rested on one propped up fist while he chewed on his thumb. He barely looked alive in this light. A simple fountain, spraying into the sky like a geyser, was lit blue and the reflection flickered on his face. Watery shadows licked at his features, and it was almost like he was wearing a crumbling mask, another face underneath it, waiting to be revealed.

Nick gripped the leather strap of his messenger bag tightly and made his way to him. He was not inclined to give up the bag he clung to, though he knew that their meeting relied on its presence. It was packed full of various narcotics, regrettably real. He’d cooked up a plot to stock it with sugar pills, but he gave up on that when he accepted George had the experience to tell the difference, and would almost surely ask to verify that the shit was real. He’d been _so desperate._ Nick just hoped he could talk him down before it came to that… “Hey, George.”

He turned, and crossed his arms, eyeing the bag, “Oh, hi Nick.” The silence between them was long and uncomfortable, filled only with the sound of falling snow.

“We should talk about last week.” Nick started, though he made no attempt to continue.

George rolled his eyes, “Obviously neither of us want to, so let’s just get this over with. I’ll take the bag.” He took a step towards him, and Nick could see the snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes. He held the bag more tightly against him. 

“What do you mean obviously? I want to talk about it, and I know you do too. I’m here because I’m worried about you, not to give you this-” George cut him off.

“The bag.” He reached out one hand, red with cold, and Nick wondered how he wasn’t shaking with nerves and frostbite alike.

“This isn’t you, George! God, I haven’t seen you act like this since before you went to rehab…” He could’ve sworn he watched all the snow in his hair, and on his jacket, melt off as his face contorted into a sneer, somewhere between rage and ashamed revulsion.

He exhaled hotly, visibly expelling steam into the bitter wind. “I am _nothing_ like that _boy._ Don’t you dare compare me to _that_ … It’s late, Nick. Now give me the bag.”

Nick tried, in vain, to steer the conversation in the right direction once again, even though it was feeling more and more like an argument. “No, George, I’m not going to help you become this person. It’s always been us, together, so I don’t understand why you’ve suddenly decided to give that up!” His voice raised in agitation and echoed around the empty plaza before floating away on the waves of Lake Geneva. 

George gave him a tight lipped smile, “You don’t even know who I am, Nick!” 

Something about the way he’d said it made the blood freeze in his friend’s veins. He spoke from the perspective of reflection like he was delivering information from an event that had already happened, an event Nick was seemingly missing. He wracked his brain trying to figure out what it was, he was sure he couldn’t forget anything _this_ significant. _God,_ if he witnessed something this big go down he’d surely remember, unless… 

“You- you drank the scotch didn’t you?” 

“Yep.” George’s eye contact was unwavering, unrepentant. 

“Do you really want this?” Nick looked down at the bag, his tone, biting.

“I do.”

He was positive that any punch George could throw at him right now wouldn’t hurt as much as those two words. He gasped, the air suddenly too thin to get a full breath. He took a moment to collect himself and slowly began pulling the bag off his shoulder. His tone was sharp, “Fine, take it then. But you can’t have this, and me too. If you take this bag… _we’re done._ I have better things to do with my time. I’m missing my sister’s birthday for this, for _you._ But if that doesn’t matter to you, take this and go. This- this is your last chance.” He stopped, assuming he was finished, but a final pang, the death rattle of his guilt, escaped him, “Please George, I can still help you.” His voice was broken, defeated.

 _I can still help you_. He let it reverberate around his skull, genuinely considering the offer. Presently he was disgusted with himself, but the way he’d felt on the phone last week had been a million times worse. And, he figured, recovery would surely be more of _that feeling._ He silenced his reeling brain; there was no choice. “I don’t need you to save me, Nick.” George took the bag from where it was tucked under his arm and walked past him. “Goodnight.”

The snow was heavy enough now that he was making fresh tracks, walking a new path home. “George,” Nick breathed, barely audible over the hush of cresting waves.

He turned, shifting the bag onto his shoulder. “What?”

The other’s back remained to him, as he gazed into the dark water. “Good _bye._ ”

The prince felt something twist inside of him, but he continued back to the hotel. Nick stood there for a while, and let the tears freeze to his eyelashes. 

—————————

He’d been so close, _so close_ to making it back inside with Clay and Anthony none the wiser. But karma was a vengeful bitch and she wanted balance restored at her earliest convenience. So when George sauntered off the elevator he walked right into Clay’s chest. He put a hand up, catching on the bodyguard’s folded arms to buffer the impact. What he _didn’t_ expect, was that the arm would be bare. He lingered, feeling the muscle beneath his skin, before wrenching his hand away. It was a sight to behold- Clay in a t-shirt. Clay in a _wet_ t-shirt. His hair was rumpled and shiny, and damp fabric clung to his torso emphasizing otherwise hidden abs. He would’ve stopped to take in the full ensemble, but he was too panicky to appreciate it. George tried to brush past him wordlessly, but he’d made it all but two feet before Clay’s hand was wrapping around his wrist, forcing them to face each other. 

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” He looked furious.

“ _Out._ ” George was going to stand his ground, even though Clay’s grip probably could’ve circled his wrist twice.

“That isn’t yours,” his bodyguard pointed to the bag that he’d angled as far away from him as possible, “and it sure as hell can’t be anything good if you’re sneaking around at one in the fucking morning to get it.”

He tried to roll his eyes nonchalantly, as if to deny that he’d even snuck out, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Clay tugged at his wrist, and his entire body jerked forward. He was clearly _not_ stupid, or in the mood. “Give it to me.”

George was getting fed up, and used the momentum of his stumble to pull his hand out of Clay’s. Once he was free, he crossed his arms, partly in pride, partly to keep them out of reach. “ _You_ don’t have the authority to tell me what to do.”

It was Clay’s turn to roll his eyes, “Fine, if you don’t hand it over then I’ll tell someone who does. I didn’t take this job to get back talk from a guy who is _literally_ the same age as me.”

George was taken aback, he despised being treated like a child, even when he knew he was acting like one. “You’re a fucking snitch! I have no idea why I thought I could trust you, you’re just an extension of _my mother._ ” It clearly hit a nerve.

“George, you _can_ trust me- to do my job! I’m here to keep you safe- and whatever’s in that bag- I’m sure as hell it isn’t. But the trust you want doesn’t exist in a professional capacity- you’re asking for _friendship._ ”

He would’ve agreed to anything at that point, just to maintain ownership of the bag, but _friendship, that_ was interesting too. “Fine, I want that. Let’s do it,” he snapped and turned back towards his room. 

Clay slammed his fist on the corridor’s table to get his attention and several kitschy figurines rattled. “God, George, it isn’t that easy! Do you not understand how fucked this power dynamic is? I mean, we’re the same age and we’ve probably got some of the same stuff going on- but then you’re also a _prince,_ and you can just say shit like that to me, and I have to take it in stride. _Friendship_ isn’t one-sided like that, if you actually want it, we need to be able to _trust each other_ , as _equals_.”

“I’m sorry… the rank thing was shitty to bring up, I hate it too,” George admitted quietly, and it was finally the truth. That would be all though, he resolved, he didn’t want to ruin this with too many emotions like he did with Nick. “Just, please, let me keep the bag.” 

Clay felt guilty at the way George jumped when he hit the table, how his once haughty visage was now inspecting the floor to avoid his gaze. Perhaps he’d done enough for tonight, he thought, it certainly seemed like that last bit had gotten through to him. He let his voice slip into a kinder tone, “Fine, I’ll trust you to keep it _and_ not do anything reckless; just get rid of it before we leave. If it’s gone by then, you can trust me to forget about it. Nobody has to know.”

George hesitated before nodding slowly, extending a hand in agreement. “So… friends?”

Clay gave him an unassuming smile, “we’ll see,” and retreated to his room before the prince could ask him why he even noticed he was missing in the first place.

—————————

George was brazenly high. Like, forget your own name high, which, from his perspective, wasn’t the _worst_ thing ever, considering nearly everyone knew his name already. It was a miracle he’d even made it inside alone, Anthony had shepherded him to the front steps of The Bâtiment, and Clay joined the rest of his PPO team, trailing a good thirty feet behind him. George had scraped through the once over from his handler when he emerged from his room to leave, but it was only because he’d stared himself down in the mirror forty minutes prior, convincing himself he could pass for sober. That was under the harsh bright lights of the bathroom though, and this- _this was a whole other animal._ George chuckled out loud at the joke. The ball was a panda-themed benefit after all. A passing couple shot him a strange look, but he didn’t notice. There were far too many beautiful things to look at. Windows arched, impossibly tall, and George’s empty eyes filled with the sparkle of the river they poured in. The Master of Ceremonies looked at him expectantly from across the stairway, waiting to announce his arrival. But George stood at the top of the grand staircase unconcerned, head tipped back as he watched green and purple lights dance the tango on the ceiling. When the M.C. cleared his throat, he turned too quickly to glare at him and had to catch himself on the railing. To everyone else, it had been a painfully slow motion and equally telling of his state. Perhaps overconfident, or maybe just distracted by the sounds and sights of the ball, George _let go_ of the banister and began his descent to the party below. It was a shuffle at best, and he suddenly felt a tall figure materialize behind him as he slid his foot over the third step. 

“You’re high.” Clay spat, and his voice was humid against the back of his neck. Involuntarily, George’s body swayed towards the close stimulation and he halted around the fifth step to lean back against the heat. Clay quickly laced an arm under his from behind, and grabbed at George’s lapel to catch him. And suddenly the muscles he’d recoiled from the night before were flush against him, feeling every panicked pound of his heart. He went weak in the knees, and the arm seat belted across his chest tightened, restricting his air until he was practically panting in Clay’s arms. They were plastered against each other, stock still on the stairs. Clay had stopped him just in time. A few more steps and the M.C. would’ve announced his arrival, a few more steps and this would’ve been an international incident. George let his head rest on his bodyguard’s shoulder and he looked up at him with glassy, docile eyes, a stupid grin unfurling over his face. The look he received in return was angry, and Clay's eyes shot to his lips, inches from his, before facing the crowd, looking anywhere but the prince’s mouth. “What the fuck happened to trust, George?”

He nestled his head further upon his shoulder until his lips just barely grazed Clay’s neck. “You…” he whispered, and inhaled deeply when the grip around him suddenly loosened, “look _so good_ in a suit…” His heavy-lidded eyes shut fully, blissed out on the party atmosphere, the high… _Clay._ He continued, “but you’re even prettier out of one.” His voice was nothing more than a breathy whisper, only for him, and Clay was amazed he was still supporting both of them when he finally finished. He went to shift his weight, get a better hold, when George tilted his head up and nipped at the soft skin just under his jaw. 

_Fuck._ The sounds around him devolved into a single high pitch whine, and the gala fell away. It was only him, and George, and him, and _George,_ and _him and-_ “George?” His eyes flew open as his body tensed around air. He realized, horrified, that he’d put them both off balance in his stupor and George was stumbling forward. He reached out, but it was too late, the prince’s impetus increased by the second, hurdling towards- 

The Master of Ceremonies bellowed for the hall to hear, “His Royal Highness, Prince George of the United Kingdom!” And he raised an arm in presentation just as the prince in question lost consciousness and sank like a brick to the floor, rolling down the rest of the staircase. And the only thing George was received with was a collective gasp issued from the crowd. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I had a great time writing this chapter, and I hope you liked it! <3
> 
> I was hoping to get this out a little earlier, but life happens. I'm still pretty happy though because I did finish one of my new books and still managed to finish the chapter within the deadline :)
> 
> I'll probably read another book before starting the next chapter, but I have a general idea what's going to happen so it's all good! I'm going to say new chapter within 1-2 weeks. See you soon <33


	4. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw! this chapter contains abuse (physical and emotional) and more explicit homophobia than other chapters, also, no actual self harm, but some allusion to it
> 
> Clay and George have meetings the morning after they come home from Geneva. Clay is definitely in trouble, right? And George- he can't even remember what happened. The king is home and has some things to say.  
> Hey? Has anyone seen Alistair?  
> George has to face some truths, and revisit a difficult part of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry this too me more than a week to get done. I lost a whole day because the new book I started sucked :(  
> I was also in kind of a weird head space for part of this week, and it's easier to watch streams rather than get stuck in my head while I write for six hours. (I still love writing though, and I'm not going anywhere... just a weird week) 
> 
> Anyway! How about a 7k chapter to make up for it? Honestly, every time I write I can't believe how much comes out. I hope you enjoy! There's a bit of an easter egg line in here, so I hope you catch it ;) 
> 
> Also, I just wanted to say thank you all so so so much for your kind comments and kudos <3 I appreciate them so much, and I love talking to you guys :)))
> 
> Not many notes for this chapter but here we go,  
> Things I mention:
> 
> Victoria Memorial: Big fancy fountain in front of Buckingham Palace for the late Queen Victoria 
> 
> (please check tw's in the summary for this chapter, ik this story is rated explicit but i don't want anyone to be caught off guard by upsetting material)

Clay was exhausted, he’d gotten back to London hours ago but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. Instead, he’d spent the time pacing his room, pulling at his hair nervously, rehashing the events of the trip. A few times, it felt like he was starting to hyperventilate and he froze, two fingers flying to his pulse. His eyes would close, head tilt down, the back of his hand was warm against his jawline. The first time, he leaned into it, finding it strangely allusive. But then he’d come to his senses, head snapping away, as the guilt burned him. It was reminiscent of _George, the kiss._ He thought what he felt was shame, but the offending hand lingered on his neck, and he let it, just like he’d let George. 

Blushing, he tugged at his shirt cuffs. A butler pushed a tea cart past him in the hallway where he stood, into the queen’s apartments. He would have to go in there soon too, take responsibility for the disaster that was supposed to prove his capabilities. He had half a mind to kneel before her as a suppliant and beg her not to fire him. But Clay couldn’t even muster the words to do that. Truthfully, he was having a hard time thinking about anything but the few fleeting moments of bodily contact with the prince. _George’s lips, soft, on his skin…_ It was almost convenient that it happened only seconds before the misstep, pun intended, that was sure to haunt him for the rest of his life. He hoped there was enough memory there to satisfy the queen’s questions. Though it was far from likely she’d be satisfied by anything he told her while one son was missing, and the other was a laughing stock. 

There was only one reason Clay had even shown up this morning, and frankly, it was less of a reason and more of a miracle. By some act of God, there were seemingly no photos of George pre-tumble. Which meant no photos of him literally sucking Clay’s neck. The only evidence that remained was the picture splashed on the front of every newspaper across the world: the prince limp at the bottom of a staircase, his bodyguard a smudge in the background. _As it should be,_ Clay thought, trying not to think about _it_ for the millionth time, terrified of wearing the memory out.

Well, if he waited any longer to go in he was pretty sure he’d sweat through his suit. In all fairness, the location probably didn’t matter. Clay was a mess of nerves, despite the constant reminders that he’d been through plenty worse than a tense meeting. He entered the chamber, bowing, and regarded the woman sitting by an expansive coffee table. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” The atmosphere was ambiguous, which set him on edge, but certainly not as hostile as he expected.

She nodded at him, “Good morning, Clay. Please, come sit.” She gestured to a couch next to her armchair. 

He rushed over, the apologies already spilling out, “Your Majesty, I am so sorry for everything, I-”

“Just sit.” She wore a confused expression but still retained her composure, “I don’t know what you’re blathering on about, in the grand scheme of things it’s not an issue that George had contact with Nick.” 

That caught him off guard; _so that’s where he got the bag from_ ; he’d assumed, but even so, that wasn’t the first topic he thought she’d reach for, “Oh, that’s not what I- I'm sorry, what?”

Helena rolled her eyes as if she’d given this spiel a hundred times before, “At the end of the day my son is an adult who makes his own choices, and neither you nor I can control him…” Clay was stupefied, utterly unbelieving that he wasn’t getting his ass handed to him right now. She looked annoyed and added, “I think this weekend’s incident has been more than enough evidence of _that._ ” 

Stumbling over his words, he hesitated to trust her gracious benevolence. This _had_ to be another test. I mean, twelve hours ago her _son,_ the _prince,_ swooned in his arms after kissing _him_. Of course, she didn’t _know_ that. But he couldn’t just accept that it had somehow happened without karmic repercussions. The other shoe was poised to drop, hidden, but poised. “Yes, but you said- isn’t it my fault he-”

The queen took a moment to stir sugar into her coffee, and he watched her shoulders droop slightly. This was clearly weighing on her, but that wasn’t something she’d soon admit. She shifted in the chair, and her tone was snippier, though Clay didn’t get the sense it was directed at him, “Clay, I’ll clue you in on this. My son, he’s- _self destructive._ ” She paused and swallowed to get the bitter taste of truth off her tongue. Continuing, “And your job is to protect him from all immediate threats that may befall him, no matter what _state_ he might be in. But you are _not_ responsible for the decisions he makes, because they are his alone.”

He was taken aback, concerned that she thought of him as a rowdy teenager where there were deeper issues. “Well, yes, I see your point. But-”

She shot him a look that made his skin crawl, and her condescending gaze reminded him of his place. He held his tongue, and she allowed a significant silence to fall between them, flaunting her power. “I asked you here for a reason Clay, not to be interrupted.”

“Yes, of course.” He’d been lured into a false sense of security when he wasn’t fired upon entrance. He felt stupid to think that someone- _the queen,_ no less- would summon him just to let him know he was still employed. His hand tensed on the arm of the sofa, bracing for impact. _Here comes the other shoe._

“You should know I’m dismissing his handler, Anthony,” she began, “only for the time being, of course, because George is _not_ to leave the palace anytime soon.” Helena looked directly into his eyes, and what she said felt like a foreshadowing threat to him more than anyone else, “And to be blunt, I was quite unimpressed with his performance in Sweden. I mean, where the hell was he during that debacle? He was supposed to be by George’s side the whole night making sure he wasn’t an embarrassment, and then- _this._ ”

Was she serious? Clay felt the rage rising from his gut, setting his jaw on edge. There were so many things he wanted to say- scream even- but he settled on, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” _Shit._ It came out pitifully diffident. She took it as him questioning his own skill rather than her judgment. 

He wanted to melt and slip away into the floorboards when she looked at him. She nodded her head reassuringly and leaned forward to place a hand on his knee. “Of course! After this trip, I trust you’ll be able to handle him on your own.” She smiled, and he felt foolish. “I’d like to commend you, your brevity and dignity this weekend is what made the media release somewhat manageable. There are only a few people who know what truly happened, rather than a few million… and I have to thank you for that.” She patted his knee and it was meant to be comforting, but it felt more like she was smoothing the top of a fresh grave.

Clay wanted to jump out of his skin. It would’ve been so easy to accept the praise, offer a final cordial apology, and escape. But something was tugging at him, deep in his chest. He was appalled by how nonchalant the queen was about the blatant substance abuse, and maybe it wasn’t his _job_ to say anything, but what kind of person would he be if he didn’t bring it up once? Gathering his courage he stuttered out, “Don’t- don’t you think he needs help?” 

Helena pulled away from him quickly, brow arched, “Whatever do you mean?”

 _Alright,_ this was ridiculous, he knew she’d seen the bag. They all had. He didn’t understand how someone so calculating, who ran an entire country, could have such a blindspot. Surely, she wasn’t going to keep up the media cover with _him_ \- just a bout of the flu. “He damn near overdosed!” He yelled, frustration breaking through his subdued exterior.

“A one time thing,” Helena responded passively, and she picked up a nearby newspaper, effectively dismissing him. 

“He was high the first day I got here!” He stood, and as the admission clung to the air, he watched her hand crumple the edge of the paper. She took a labored breath, the silence between them almost suffocating. She looked at the space where Clay had just sat. 

“Fine, maybe it’s not. But Clay, trust me, there’s not much I can do for him that his father and I haven’t tried before. He’s been to rehab, done the therapy… I suppose you’ve seen it all on his file anyway. But at this point, it’s his decision to make.” She glanced up at the man standing over her, and her figure softened. For a moment, he thought she was intimidated, but then he realized she was just even more tired than him. Sighing, Helena spoke again, though it sounded like the only person she was trying to convince was herself, “I love that boy, but the things he does… it’s all for attention. The _anger_ in him; his jealousy will be his demise.”

“Jealousy?” 

She nodded vacantly. “He’s quite jealous he isn’t first in the line of succession.”

“Oh.” Clay hadn’t known that about George. He sensed the end of the meeting was fast approaching, “Could I ask you just one more thing?”

She sighed again, still not meeting his eyes, “Only one.”

There was no point now in walking on eggshells he’d already had the audacity to stomp on, so he blurted out, “I haven’t been around long enough to know, but is this how you would treat Alistair? I’m sorry if that’s insensitive…”

That seemed to shock her, and her entire body jolted, gaze finally jerking toward Clay before she grabbed the discarded newspaper and began studying it with a new intensity. There was a slight tremor in her hands that was amplified by the paper. Without looking up she disregarded him, “Good day, Clay. You did well this weekend.”

He pressed his lips tightly together and nodded once. Stepping back to leave, he offered one civil bow before turning to the door. He’d just reached the threshold when he heard her. It was faint, wreathed in remorse, but he swore she’d said it, “No, I suppose not.”

——————————

George shook his head, trying to clear some of the fog that clouded his mind. He was home now, but he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. Honestly, he was too afraid to ask. He grimaced and pushed at the base of his neck, swallowing. The back of his throat hurt, but that was a mystery too. His body felt weak, and he sagged against the wall outside his father’s study waiting to be invited in.

George wasn’t particularly keen on his father, nor his father on him. The reasons were endless, changing each time they had the displeasure of interacting. _Too small, too weak, too feminine._ His mother never seemed to understand how vicious the ridicule actually was. No one did. Well, no one but Phil. By all accounts, George was the court’s disgrace, and the king was just the unfortunate soul who happened to father him. _And so gracious,_ people would say, _so generous to him,_ as if they thought it possible for the crown to openly sully its name with abuse. _Just look at my eyes,_ George used to think, _why can’t anyone see through this charade?_

The thought of Phil pained him in a way he didn’t know possible. He was utterly wracked with guilt when he realized how long it had been since he thought about him. _More than a week._ His escapades seemed foolish before, but shameful tears pricked at his eyes when he registered they’d been a demerit against Phil as well. _A whole fucking week._ George scratched at the silken wallpaper absentmindedly, agitated. That man taught him how to read when his tutors gave up. That man always had the time to give him advice and applauded his pursuit of computer science when no one else did. That man hugged him when the king laid into him, told him crying didn’t make him weak. _That man_ was his father. 

Memories pooled behind George’s eyes, flooding his mind. They were comforting and excruciating at the same time. But such is life, and often one chooses between the two feelings lest they be consumed by an agonizing limbo. George chose grief, but he hadn’t much practice with anything else. He would soon be numb to it anyway, a dull throb, easily hushed. From across the hall, doors opened, and hand his father’s secretary beckoned for him to enter.

—————————

The study was smaller than most rooms in the palace, and much of it was crowded with bookcases. The only space that was unencroached were windows that overlooked the Victoria Memorial and the London skyline at the front of Buckingham. It was raining, and gray light cast the room, but George could still make out eager tourists gathering outside the gates below. The king was looking at them too, and he leaned against his desk, putting all his weight on one hand. His head cocked pensively, and they listened to the sound of raindrops plink against glass panes, both waiting for the other to speak first.

George crossed his arms defensively and let out a little huff as his eyes flitted back and forth from the window to his father. The king eventually spoke, “Do you see them down there?” He kept his back to his son. 

The question was simple enough but it felt like a trap. “Who, the tourists?” 

“Yes. And what do you think of them?” His voice was low and powerful, filling the room. It was a king’s voice he’d always said. That’s why Alistair had inherited it and George hadn’t.

He didn’t know what the right answer was, but it was never good when his father was vague. George didn’t know how he felt about the tourists, he’d never even thought about them. Perhaps it was criticism his father was looking for- it was what he relied on so often. “I suppose I think they’re foolish for coming ‘round on such a nasty day.”

The king stiffened and finally turned to look at George. “Come here,” he practically growled, his eyes gleaming with rage. George emerged from the doorway, arms still crossed, and reluctantly made his way over. About halfway there, his father’s voice crescendoed, “They’re fools? _They’re the fools?_ Look at this _shit,_ and say that again.” He picked up his hand, uncovering a newspaper.

George stopped dead in his tracks and audibly gasped. It was him on the cover, unconscious on a red carpet. And he didn’t remember it… until he did. A flash of light through the fog, a flash of tossing back far too many pain killers for his “shoulder” that wasn’t even that sore. And then darkness again. _That_ must’ve been the result of his actions though. His arms uncrossed in shock, and his fingers began fiddling nervously by his hip. “I- I must’ve been ill. I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”

“Oh George,” his father placed his fingertips on the desk and inhaled, puffing himself up larger than he already was. “We both know that’s not true.” He scoffed, “Well I’m sure you don’t remember it, but I don’t think that’s what you’re denying. Is it?” 

“No,” he said quietly. His face flushed in embarrassment and George tightened his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. The meeting had been doomed from the start, but now that he knew it for certain, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. If anything his father should be happy, he thought, that he wasn’t going to fold like the coward he always said he was.

“You know what, George, let’s say you’re telling the truth, that you were just ill, and not grievously high. How is _this_ any better?” He pointed to the photo and then at the window, “Because any fuck I picked up off the street would agree that _this is not_ how you conduct yourself at a party when you’re sick. Let alone a _prince_ at a _ball,_ surrounded by the _world’s most influential people_. You’re a _disgrace!_ ” He spat. 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Don’t act as if you or any of them give a single _fuck_ about me- as if you _ever_ have.” He was _done_ with his father’s feigned concern. This is why he’d moved to Kensington in the first place. Here, he was just an annoyance underfoot, and sooner or later he was bound to get kicked. George hated that the criticism still got to him though, that it hurt his feelings even after all these years. “ _You’re_ the king, and Alistair is the darling heir, it doesn’t matter at all what I do.” He was determined not to let the humiliation get to him, he was older now; this time, he was going to prove a point- he was going to win.

The king’s face contorted and he leaned over the desk to get closer to George, trying to intimidate him. He snarled, “It _does_ fucking matter you moron, what if Alistair was dead? How would you feel if you woke up one day, the entire country looking to you, and this- _this_ is what they saw?”

It was the oldest trick in the book. _What if you were in Alistair’s shoes?_ The threat had been in circulation since he was a boy, back when he’d actually wanted to be king. George rolled his eyes at the useless hypothetical, it was little more than dated pandering. “Oh please, Alistair isn’t dead.”

The king stood up straight, resuming his menacing stature, and crossed his arms. “I’m leaving to I.D. his body in an hour.” And his voice did not quaver or break. Nor did grief darken his visage. He looked… smug.

“ _What?_ ” It didn’t even cross his mind that it could be a lie. It wouldn’t be. Alistair was his father’s favorite. He was _important._ The throbbing guilt he’d entered with suddenly bloomed all over his body, jabbing between his ribs and taking the breath hostage in his throat.

His father nodded stiffly, but his eyes sparkled in triumph, “I came home to deal with your bullshit, and an hour ago I got a call that a body has been found. Your mother doesn’t know yet, but we have to fly _back_ to the Indian Ocean to go I.D. it. You’d better pray to God it isn’t him.” The words flung from his mouth like knives and landed in George, a frozen target.

“I- I will.” There was nothing more to say, not now. Anything but quiet hope would be disrespectful, a temptation of the fates. 

The king took his silence as a concession and pounced on the opportunity to finally tear into his son. It was like a game to him. The hunt, the chase, the kill. Each scar he left- a trophy. “I can’t say I didn’t see this coming,” he said smoothly. “I knew it would only be a matter of time before you relapsed. You’re so _weak._ ” His words were biting, and the wounds they left dripped animosity. 

“Why do you say things like that?” He mumbled. Tears flowed freely down George’s cheeks, and he held his upper arm, as if to staunch imaginary blood. He didn’t know why he thought it would go differently today- as if the time away from Buckingham would’ve made him any stronger. If anything, it had softened him. The only thing that kept him upright, verbal even, was his love for Alistair. His death would not be treated with such frivolity. 

The king sniffed, and regarded his son with disgust, “It’s the truth, George. And you think I’m the only one? You should hear the things they say behind your back.” He let out a single harsh laugh, “And after this? I’m just counting the days until they find you with some _boy_ again.”

Oh. There it was. It was the one thing his father never, ever brought up. As if the very acknowledgment dirtied him by association. It was the only thing they almost agreed on, though he’d never admit it; George was almost as ashamed of _it_ as his father was. 

His eyes shot to meet the king’s, genuinely incredulous at what he’d just said. Heat crept across his face, and he felt completely disconnected from his own body. It was like he was twelve again, panicked adrenaline coursing through his system, mixing with the lingering high of ‘first times’ that hadn’t yet grasped the fact he’d been caught. His voice was choked and thick, though lower now than it had been half a lifetime ago. “I was _a child._ We were _friends._ ”

The king rolled his dark eyes and rounded the desk, approaching his son. “Just spare me the sob story, George. If you have a fucking ounce of sense, which I sincerely doubt, you won’t let history continue to repeat itself. You’re an adult now, deal with it yourself, like a real man.” The last part slid from his tongue like a poisonous serpent, bridging the gap between them. Its scales were razors, and it sliced into him, the poison ice in his blood.

What his father hadn’t expected was the shame, the rage within him, to evaporate the paralyzing agent the second it touched him. His words floated off George and condensed on the windows. They were fogged with the ardor of the room. Reinvigorated, George stepped closer to his father, and stuck his index finger into his chest, pushing a little harder to emphasize each word. “This isn’t the same at all. I’m nothing like that _boy._ ” There was a gnawing feeling of déjà vu as he said it, but no time to linger on it.

The king’s eyes widened when he touched him, he’d never been so bold before. It was an unnatural feeling for his father, and he snapped, immediately defensive at the unexpected power shift. “You’re a naive little shit if you think that you’re not. If those people outside are fools to come here, then it’s because of _you. Your actions_ have dishonored the crown, and the people who love it. So perhaps they are foolish… they’d be bloody idiots to love _you. You’re nothing but a pathetic, pansy addict,_ and that’s _all_ you’ll ever be. You make me sick!” He shoved George away from him, and his son stumbled back but never once broke eye contact.

“ _Fuck you_!” George shouted, without any regard for his safety or sanity. It was only Alistair’s honor he was defending, only his that he cared about. “My brother could be dead and now’s the time you pick to tell me I’m an embarrassment? I _know._ ” He straightened his back, recovered from the push, and walked back up to his father with crazed confidence. “God damn it, that’s the reason I do that shit. The knowing is worse than everything else combined!” He laughed until it devolved into a tortured sob, “And I only have _you_ to thank for that, _Dad._ You’re the reason I’m like this. But what should it matter to you right now, he’s the heir and I’m the sp-”

The second he called him Dad, it was over. He hadn’t since the day he’d gone to rehab, the day his father told him never to call him that again. It was a dirty move, one that flaunted just how powerless the king really was. A figurehead in his home as well as his country. He’d never be rid of George, no matter how much he hated him because he was _his son._

George stood his ground, inches away from his chest and looked into his eyes with complacency. Even as his father’s hand rose in his periphery, he did not look away until the hand came down, swift and strong upon his cheek, and he fell.

The crack echoed around the room, and the king spat, “You wretched boy, even if Alistair is dead you will be _nothing to me._ I would sooner slaughter you with my bare hands than give you this throne.”

George stayed down but forced himself to look defiantly up at the king despite the off-balancing ring in his ears and the blood running down his face. His father turned off the lights as he left, leaving his son to tremble, alone, in the dark. 

———————————

Clay appeared in his doorway five minutes after he’d dragged himself back to his room. George hoped those few minutes would be enough, that perhaps the injury was less obvious. Technically, he’d won the fight with his father, but that didn’t stop the shame from growing with each wobbly step he’d taken back to his room. As the stupor faded, George wondered how the hell he’d lived like this for so long. It was _so_ much worse than he ever remembered- even when he’d been caught with that boy.

Though this was far from the first time his father had struck him, this blow had packed the strongest punch of them all. His youthful resiliency was expired, overtaken by the bleak reality of adulthood. George hurried to wash the blood from his face when he’d finally made it back to his room. He brought a handful of water up to his nose and cursed, flinching in pain. The water fell, splattering his white shirt pink. Cursing, he tore it off and tried again in vain. Immediately, he hissed in agony, “ _Shit._ ”

The slap had had more than his father’s weight behind it. George’s guilt, and anger, and disgust at himself had wound up with it. He scrubbed furiously at the sensitive side of his face, whimpering in anguish. The physical mark would be there for days to come, and washing it away was irrational, but he still tried, knowing he would barely be able to look at himself in the mirror while it was there. _Emotionally,_ well… it’s impossible to heal when a part of you believes you deserved it. 

He slammed his hands into the counter, splattering the rosy water across the marble. He leaned against it, chest heaving as he panted, trying to focus on anything but the pain radiating through his body. That was how Clay found him, and George’s hope that he wouldn’t notice his face quickly dissolved into desire that he just wouldn’t care enough to ask, especially after how he’d treated him in Geneva. At least he remembered that. But, _oh fuck,_ maybe he _didn’t,_ because a semi-clear image of a friendship pact shot through his mind. This whole memory loss thing was getting messier by the second, and it made George feel even more helpless.

Clay caught sight of the colorful bruise as soon as he swung through the door. “George I’m- Oh shit, are you all right?” His eyes widened, and he reached for his shoulder.

Before he could turn him to see, George shrugged him off and angled away, suddenly self-conscious without a shirt. “Yeah, I’m fine.” But his hoarse voice only betrayed him more.

“No you’re not, let me see.” Annoyingly, Clay’s hand was still on his shoulder, and then it was drawing George back around to him. He was hardly sure he could handle one of Clay’s hands on his bare skin, but before he could think about it, the other went for his face.

“Fuck _off,_ I _said_ I’m fine.” George tried to tug away, but his grip was stronger than he thought. _Or maybe I’m just too weak…_

“Hey,” he snapped, though it was full of concern. George froze and let Clay’s hand cradle his face. When he softly thumbed across his cheek, he whined again, involuntarily. 

Clay’s brow furrowed, and he frowned. “You’re still bleeding, let me help.” He pulled away, sliding off his jacket, and laid it over the edge of the bathtub. When he heard a noise he looked up quickly. George had shrunk back, his hand squeaking against the wet countertop. For a moment, he thought the prince had lost his balance, but when he went to steady him he only recoiled more. His brown eyes were wide, scared, fixed to his belt. Looking down, Clay realized how obvious the gun was on his hip without the jacket. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” He raised his hands away from his waist and backed up. “I’ll just- I’ll put it out there.” He grabbed his jacket from the bath and went back into George’s room. 

When he returned, George was noticeably calmer. “Let me help you?” He asked, but waited to approach until the prince gave him a short, cautious nod. Relief flowed through him when he did, and he grabbed one of the hand towels as he rushed over. Clay’s hand rested on the back of George’s neck, holding him still. But when he reached for his bloody nose with the towel, the prince turned his cheek into his palm. “What’s wrong? I promise this isn’t going to hurt too badly.”

“The towel- it’s white,” he grumbled and looked sheepishly to the side. 

Clay couldn’t hold in the chuckle as he guided George’s face back up, “Oh come on, George, you’re more important than a towel.” The way he said it hadn’t sounded like the joke it was meant to be, and he felt a warm flush crawl up the prince’s neck. His hand flew away instantly, surprised at the reaction.

Clay stood there, hand cocked, and George immediately fell over himself, crashing back into the wall behind him. The bodyguard looked confused and then horrified. He approached the young man huddled on the floor, and tentatively reached down to help him up.

As George trembled, the encounter with his father played over and over in his mind. His hand raising, the way he’d looked at him before he left him alone on the floor. When he noticed Clay’s dismayed expression, it was jarringly familiar. He shut his eyes and curled in on himself.

As his outstretched hand remained empty, the bodyguard cursed himself. _Damn it, I should’ve known better than to move like that; I scared him._ But he was more concerned by the reaction than anything, it had been violent. The fear so apparent, his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Yes, he’d just been attacked, but the response still elicited red flags. It was _too much, too learned,_ to have just been a one-time thing. Taking charge, he folded his hands into the prince’s, practically melting when they squeezed back reassuringly. He kept his voice quiet, trying not to startle him again, and led him toward the high edge of the bath. “Can we go over here? There’s better light.” The prince sat on the edge but kept his eyes pointedly on the ground. “Hey, I’m sorry about that, it was an accident.” No response. “That’s okay, can you just hold this while I look at the rest of your face?” George accepted the towel and stared forward blankly. It wasn’t much, but Clay almost cried with relief that some part of the prince, however small, still trusted him.

As George sank deeper into his mind, further from reality, he barely noticed Clay’s gentle hands on his face, inspecting the damage. Well, he didn’t notice until his hand tucked under his chin, and his thumb settled on his lower lip. Clay leaned in slightly, innocently, to check it but the intimacy of it made George jump out of his skin. Suddenly he was aware how the bodyguard framed him, one leg straight, the other bent and leaning against the bathtub, practically _straddling him._ Guilt rose like hot bile in his gut, lurching him back to the present, and without thinking, George dropped the towel and shoved Clay back.

He hesitated for longer than he’d like to admit on the prince’s lips, lost in memories of the night before… when those lips were on him. He’d resolved it would never happen again, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t just think about it for a second. Worried he’d given himself away, Clay leaned in to finally inspect them. Something hummed within him, a note rarely heard, _I’m going crazy,_ he reasoned. _The exhaustion is getting-_ his thought was cut off as George pushed him away. 

Yeah, he probably deserved that, not that Clay would admit it to him. “Don’t touch me like that!” George growled, and he looked at him accusingly. Something toxic moved behind his eyes, and for a moment Clay worried he’d read him entirely wrong from the start. It made him feel like a predator, but surely he wasn’t… _surely_ \- George kissed _him, right?_ “Are you serious? You’re going to say that after _last night?_ ” It was aggressive, low, and wholly unprofessional. But he was lashing out because the prince caught him off guard, and there was nothing worse than feeling helpless.

“What are you talking about?” George’s face flashed from anger to confusion, and then alarm. He stiffened visibly and sat straighter on the edge of the bath.

Oh. _Ohhh… he really doesn’t know? Shit._ Clay didn’t know what he remembered, or more importantly what he didn’t, but this conversation was quickly turning away from the issue at hand, and he was still missing key information. He hoped he hadn’t just stomped on the little trust that remained between the two. “Ah- nothing… George, who did this to you?”

The prince was entirely bewildered by what Clay had just hinted at, but he rathered not let his imagination fill in the blanks. The newspapers painted the picture well enough. However, the bodyguard’s question sent searing of ribbons shame across his face. He wilted, lowering his eyes. “No one.” 

Breathing in sharply, Clay crossed his arms but dared not come near him. “Please just tell me, I’m going to figure it out anyway.”

The inevitably of the statement gnawed at him, and after a minute he started, “It’s no one-”

And it made Clay angry, but not at him. All he wanted to do was catch the fucker who did this, the prick who messed up George’s face, _his perfect face._ He _hated_ whoever did this to him, made him bleed, and wince in pain. But mostly he hated the flinching, how the prince shied away from his hand, because it meant whoever did this had been doing it for a while. His frustration overflowed, and he cut George off, infuriated that he’d protect the person who hurt him. “George, are you honestly going to lie to me again? You _saw_ how well that worked out this weekend.” The words fell from his lips impulsively, though they were bitter with truth. As much as he cared for him, there was still resentment for his behavior in Geneva. “God, it’s one thing to manipulate me by saying we’re friends- I don’t give a _fuck_ if we are. But it’s something completely else for you to not even trust me enough to tell me who hurt you. _I_ shouldn’t even trust you after the stunt you pulled- but I have to, okay? Because I’m your bodyguard, George. So just tell me who fucking did this to you so I can do _my job.” Shit._ It had come out _a lot_ more spiteful than he’d intended. His original plan _had_ been to chew George out for lying in Switzerland, but he’d abandoned it when he found him bleeding. 

He expected him to recoil at his brutality but George reached out to him desperately, “No- please _Clay,_ ” and his tone alone made him regret everything he’d just said. “I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just trying to say- I was just trying- I was-” His voice broke, and he whimpered, “it’s no one you can do anything about.” He collapsed, defeated putting his face in his hands. 

As George began to heave shaky, defenseless breaths, Clay placed his hands on his shoulders, in silent apology. Nothing he could say now would make what he’d done any better, so he just tried to comfort him, make him feel safe again. “What do you mean?” He asked cautiously, terrified that he already knew the answer. “Did- did your dad do that to you?” And the sob that echoed the bathroom confirmed it. 

Clay ran his hands lightly down George’s arms and sank to his knees. “I’m so sorry…” He looked up at his covered face, and gently nudged back the hand that hid the injured half. There was a cut courtesy of a sharp ring on his father’s finger that sliced him as his hand glanced off his cheekbone. When Clay saw it he sucked air through his teeth and his eyes sharpened with concern. “Don’t touch that.” If he wasn’t careful it would surely scar. “Wait here, I’m not leaving you, okay? But I need to go get anti-bac and maybe some medical tape… I’ll be right back.” And just like that, George was alone again.

———————————-

Clay was fifty paces away from the door when he heard the crash. He clutched the medical supplies and sprinted down the hall. 

He heard the scene before he saw it. Hysterical sobs were loud at first, and then suddenly broke off which frightened him even more.

When he burst into the bathroom, a million reflections of his face looked back at him from shiny pieces on the floor. George lay on his side in the far corner, his back to Clay. Drops of blood were spattered around him but he couldn’t tell if it came from any new injury. Most noticeably, the massive mirror over the sink was shattered. A heavy silver vase was toppled incriminatingly on the floor. The water from it was lapping against George’s bare skin, soaking into his pants, though he didn’t seem to care. Bending down, Clay touched his shoulder and felt how cold he was.

“What happened?” he asked softly and tried to collect his head in his lap to protect him from the glass he was laying in.

George choked as he took a breath, and his eyes were glassy. “I- I couldn’t look at myself…”

He began to weep, and Clay pulled him into his arms, trying to get him out of the chilly water, “Shh, shh why not?”

“It’s just… everything.” He sat in fetal position in Clay’s lap and began anxiously fiddling with his hands. When George started scratching at his skin, he silently stopped him, taking the prince’s hands in his own.

“What do you mean, everything?”

A tired sigh warmed their intertwined hands before he began. “Everything, Clay! Phil is gone, and my father hits me, and I’m too weak to fight back; Nick is the only one I can talk to about it, and I fucked things up with him… And that’s- that’s _it!_ Because that’s _all_ I can remember. I- I’m so lost. The drugs- I think you told me not to take them, but I did. And I’m sorry Clay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

His final confession was fairly obvious, but Clay understood it was important to him. “Hey, it’s ok. You made a mistake, but I’m not angry at you. And everything you said can be fixed. I’m going to help you fix it, alright? ” He released one hand from the prince’s to stroke his hair, and he felt the hand he dropped fold around the other still in his lap. Right then he decided, _over my dead body will his father lay another hand on him, I don't give a fuck who he is._

“My brother is dead,” he said matter of factly, “I’m going to be king.”

Clay missed a breath and he hoped his panic wasn’t too apparent. _His father must have told him, damn it._ The fact remained that Alistair wasn’t dead, just that he could be. But the queen had ordered the knowing parties into silence, forbidding anyone from telling George until it was officially confirmed. Of course, she wasn’t under any obligation to say why, but Clay guessed that a reaction like _this_ , was one of the reasons. He thought back to his earlier conversation with Helena, how George was supposedly ravenous for the kingship. Looking down at the broken boy in his arms, he was pretty sure nothing was further from the truth.

He didn’t know what to say, so he just kept threading his fingers through his hair, shushing him comfortingly. They sat there quietly for a long time, and when the motion sensing light flicked off- they just sat in the dark. Clay could feel the front of his shirt going moist with the humidity of George’s breath on his chest and the blood that was- thankfully- just from his face. As far as he could tell, George hadn’t actually hurt himself with the glass. 

He felt the prince’s breathing steady, his head fall back against his shoulder. When he glanced to see if he was still awake, George’s damp eyelashes fluttered sleepily, and he murmured, “Clay?” 

“Hm?” He hummed, not wanting to disturb his peace. There was another prolonged silence, and he thought the prince might’ve fallen asleep. But just when he closed his own eyes and set his head against the wall behind him, he spoke at last…

“How do you know when it’s too much…”

He seemed barely conscious, and Clay toyed with the idea that it was only sleep talk. It was such an impossible question, and knowing he didn’t have the answer, he wracked every inch of his brain, twice, five times, ten, a thousand.

When he finally looked back at George in defeat, he was asleep, smiling sadly.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for bearing with me :)
> 
> Next chapter should be 1-2 weeks again, I need to do a bit of storyboarding b/c there are a couple of things I want to do. Um anyways, hurt/comfort anyone? Also, if you noticed the easter egg i'm so sorry, but i hope you liked it :')
> 
> I hope you guys are getting excited for the holidays!! See you soon <3


	5. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Clay both think about their pasts, they go swimming at 3 am. I mean their sleep schedules are fucked in this fic but they're also fucked in real life so I'm clearly going for ~authenicity~ here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok am I rushing to get this chapter out before midnight? Definitely yes. Will it happen? we will see...
> 
> I just wanted to take a quick moment to thank everyone for the insane amount of support you've shown me since the very beginning, and especially in this past week. I love reading your comments and you all motivate me so much <3
> 
> The beginning of this chapter is fluff that happened mostly because I wanted to write about the holidays, but bear with me bc it does actually fit with the story, i promise ;)
> 
> I think overall, this chapter is one of the lighter ones, but obviously there's still a bit of angst and interesting character development through backstory :)
> 
> Things I mention (a brief list again!)  
> Natatorium- Literally just an indoor pool room. That's it.  
> (Also at one point I mention stars over London and then I realized shit, there is a 100% chance there is too much light pollution to see those bc that is a literal city, but let's just ignore that minor detail, deal?)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, I appreciate you!!

Everything was a little fuzzy but it was probably just the champagne. George could hear firecrackers in the streets as crowds gathered around the palace. He was tired but sleep could wait, he was too alive to want it badly. Teetering, he pitched forward to peek out the window nearest him. It was night, but it would’ve been a crime to call the sky dark. Stars twinkled, and colors flashed on the horizon. It was grand, and George chewed at his lip in excitement, twirling the empty glass in his hand. He’d turned twelve this year which meant for the first time he’d be allowed to participate in the New Year’s festivities, and better yet, the palace’s own firework display would soon commence. 

Someone bumped into George’s shoulder and he jostled much more than he should’ve. “Hey!” He looked into gleaming eyes and smiled back at Alex. “Careful! I’m holding a glass!”

“Yeah, an _empty_ glass. I thought your mom said you could only have one, what are you going to drink at midnight?” The boy playfully chucked him on the shoulder and George clutched it, grimacing in feigned injury. 

Recovering quickly, he raised the glass between them, examining it like it was the first time he’d seen it. “What, this glass? This isn’t even mine!” As he said it, he hiccuped. “I- I’m holding on to it for someone.”

Alex raised his eyebrows incredulously, “Your cheeks are bright red George, and it’s either from the champagne or ‘cause you’re lying.” The prince grinned sheepishly and his friend continued to tease him, “And just _whose_ glass is it then?” 

He hesitated, scanning the room before he pointed out a tan, raven-haired girl in a tight dress on the other side of a sea of people. “It’s uh… _her’s_.” He glanced at the boy next to him and felt a laugh expanding in his throat. 

Alex smacked him on the back of the head and huffed, “Don’t even look at my sister, you idiot. Now I know you’re lying for sure.”

George rolled his eyes and let the laugh echo through him, too loud in his ears, “Yeah, obviously. It’s a _party,_ Mum isn’t around to enforce any rules, and Phil is off tonight, so no one is gonna tell…” A shout went up on the other side of the room as some ambassador delivered the punchline to a joke, and swelling Christmas music began its chorus simultaneously. They moved closer together, though it was nearly impossible to hear over the joyful hubbub.

“I could tell on you…” Alex sang into his ear, though George could hear the smile framing his words, feel it on the breath at his neck, making the room a million times hotter than it was to begin with. 

He whipped to face the conniving boy and pleaded, “No, no, no, don’t do that, don’t ruin my fun. Here,” he stopped a passing waiter, ignoring the confused look he received when he snatched two flutes off the tray, “have some champagne.”

His friend paused, shaking his head before accepting, “You drive a hard bargain.” 

“Cheers!” They clinked their glasses and winced at the sharp bubbles, juvenile tongues still partial to soda.

“Eugh,” Alex coughed, stealing the fruit off the rim of George’s glass, “the strawberries are better.” He brought it to his mouth and bit into it tauntingly. 

The prince shrugged and took another sip, “It’s fine, I like the champagne better anyway.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“Am not,” and he shot him a look that said ‘bet’ while commandeering another drink from a skeptical waiter. He plucked the strawberry from the rim and shoved it at Alex’s smirk. “Here, watch!” His friend regarded him with cynical disbelief and opened his mouth more, lips melting over the prince’s fingers as he accepted the fruit. Across the room, the fire raged and, _God it’s hot in here._

George gave a terrific play of disgust, waving his hand all around like something had slobbered on it before he made eye contact with Alex and raised his eyebrows in challenge. “ _Watch_!” He tipped his head back, and he swore he was falling forever. An infinite descent, head over heels and back again. The music was loud and the people were stuffy but he was at the center of Alex’s universe and that was all that mattered. When he finally looked back at his friend he was grinning and the glass was empty.

“You’re so dumb,” he mocked, but his tone was affectionate. And then they laughed, high and cacophonous, peals of a jovial bell. They fell over each other, just sober enough to think they could pass for it, but just tipsy enough that they were glaringly obvious. 

But it was a party, and no one noticed, no one that George thought mattered anyway. Even if someone did- they were only kids, innocent, happy. They were drunk on New Year’s Eve and they were drunk _on_ New Year’s Eve. It tasted like strawberries. 

They leaned against the wall, nudging into each other until it devolved into a spirited sparring match. George played dirty, throwing his arm over Alex's shoulders for more stability, “Wait!” They both froze. Underfoot, deep vibrations from fireworks infiltrated the palace. His friend flashed a shit-eating grin before shoving off the prince easily, rubbing it in that he’d only been letting him win. 

“Hey! That’s cheating!” George declared, just a bit too forcefully, a bit too breathless.

Alex’s eyes widened as more fireworks detonated in the distance. “Do you feel that?!” He asked excitedly, and the prince nodded. The rest of the room carried on, caroling, and schmoozing, oblivious, or perhaps too old to care. But the reverberating thrum murmured to the boys, shaking their boozy legs. It spoke in steady succession, pausing for a response, before bursting into reply, calling to them. Alex let loose one theatrical gasp, “We’re under attack! Take cover!” He grabbed George’s wrist, tugging him away from the party. 

Their laughter devolved into heaving breaths, oxfords pounding down carpeted hallways in beat with their hearts. 

When his lungs were about to collapse, George used the last bit of his energy to pull ahead; Alex followed, still latched to his wrist, and the two burst onto a terrace, panting. The stone balcony overlooked the sprawling back lawn that framed a distant pond. The yard buzzed with life as pyrotechnicians pointed from computer screens down to a floating dock that the fireworks were set up on. 

The boys hoisted themselves up against the balustrade as the remaining adrenaline dissipated in cloudy breaths stuck to frosty air. A chilling wind ruffled Alex’s hair and he combed his fingers through it to smooth it back in place. The cold had drawn their warm bodies closer, but it was George who finally leaned in, huddling against his friend.

The boy, now supporting both of their weights, smiled but said nothing, and kept his eyes fixed ahead. “I’m cold,” George explained, shivering in emphasis.

Alex snorted, stepping back to get a good look at him. “Your cheeks are pink, you’re lying again!” 

“Yeah, pink from the cold!” The prince exclaimed, crossing his arms. He huffed indignantly, and his pinched eyes went round as his friend extended a hand to his face. Knuckles ran lightly across his cheekbone, and before he knew what he was doing, he nodded into it. The cool hand was welcome, melting against his burning cheek.

“See? _Liar_.” Alex raised his chin in victory and let the word roll off his tongue.

“Fine, from champagne.” He turned back to the railing, avoiding eye contact.

His friend kicked at his heels, setting him off balance, “Liar!”

“I've been drinking on an empty stomach!” The prince insisted, spinning back to him. His composure had broken, and he was whiny and desperate. Alex had struck a nerve, a common occurrence, but tonight was different. He didn’t stop, he played him like a harp, a plucky, tender melody, that resonated deep within George’s soul. Of course it would, the song was only ever for him. 

“ _Liar._ ” The tempo accelerated before sudden silence. Was it over?

“I’m hungry! Let’s go get something to eat.” George began walking back to the terrace doors, and the warm glow from the hallway was lost on his face, light itself- dull with the disappointment of a melodic masterpiece cut short.

“I have strawberries,” and it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing George had ever heard. The music was back, swelling- it was a symphony that demanded to be finished. 

He stuck out a grabby hand to the fruit procured from his friend’s pocket, “Give me some!” He pouted, taking a step closer.

Alex held one strawberry by its top and dangled it, pulling away from the prince. “Come and get it!” He raised his eyebrows.

George frowned, and cocked his head slightly, vexed. “Seriously?” The only response he received was the widening of Alex’s scheming smile. Stumbling forward he took clumsy sweeps at him, but they were easily evaded. _Damn,_ he almost regretted the final glass he’d downed in hubris. His gangly, awkward movements were nothing compared to Alex’s grace, and he tripped as the boy danced a waltz around him. 

The dimples in Alex’s cheeks depended as he regarded the prince, watched the moonlight sparkle on the sheen that had formed despite the December freeze. He took mercy on him and stood still, realizing his friend was seconds from toppling over the balustrade. He clasped the strawberry between his fingers, and waved it in front of his face, slowly pulling back so it hovered by his shoulder. George lunged when it stopped moving, and the lure had worked. 

As he fell, in utter disbelief that he’d finally won, he quickly realized he hadn’t. An arm wrapped around his waist, resting gently, timidly on the small of his back. And as George’s mouth closed over the bewitching berry, he felt lips upon his cheek. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, maybe five, as the prince stole the strawberry, but he didn’t pull away when it was over. Neither of them did. Instead, George let his head fall onto Alex’s shoulder, and he nestled closer into his neck, not caring whether he crumpled the collar of his suit. He hummed quietly, as his friend folded his other arm around him. His eyes slide shut, and he swayed, letting himself be held up as he reveled in his drunken senses. 

Ruby sweetness enveloped his tongue as champagne sugar was drying, sticky, on his cheek, and what he heard- he wasn’t sure if it was the beating of his heart- _no, too slow_ \- but whatever it was, was loud, and getting louder. It sounded excited and bright, and he couldn’t make out the words, but it almost didn’t matter. The noise, the babble of a thousand invisible voices, united. It was powerful in a way that could’ve only been meant for them, hopeful in a way that could’ve only been meant for them. It crescendoed, manic, pulsing each second. At first, they were indistinguishable, and the prince ticked them off in his head; the seconds since Alex had kissed George, the seconds until George kissed Alex. Until, suddenly, he could hear them, the final seconds, the important ones… “Three… Two… One!” And his mouth was on Alex’s, for the first time. The first second of the new year, the first real kiss of his life, the first boy he’d ever love. 

The sky exploded in colors above them, crackling gold, and whistling red. They were too close to the fireworks igniting in the middle of the lake, and it sounded like the world was ending. _Fine,_ George thought, _let it end._ He was happy.

Alex giggled into his mouth before breaking away, looking down at the boy in his arms. “I’ve had too much champagne.” 

George tilted his head, confusion evident from behind heavy-lidded eyes. “You’ve barely had any.” For a moment, he worried his friend regretted it, but twinkling eyes soothed him, as sure as stars in the sky. 

“Yes, now _I’m_ lying.”

And there was nothing to do but laugh, and roll his eyes, and grin. His cheeks were starting to hurt with all the smiling he’d done tonight. George tipped his head back, hands threaded behind Alex’s neck, and drank again. He drank the stars and the moon, the fireworks and the lake, the palace and the people, the terrace and the balustrade, the strawberries and the champagne. And it all paled in comparison to Alex. 

He was drunk for sure, woozy and warm, but it was also the most sober he’d felt all night. 

—————————

Clay’s eyelids were growing heavy, and he stopped himself from nodding off once more. The divot in George’s couch grew deeper with each passing hour he spent on it, unmoving. He favored a good pace over his sedentary state, but he had no idea of how soundly the prince slept. It could’ve gone either way after his breakdown, an exhausted hibernation, or light slumber, the inside of his mind scarier than the waking world. Whatever it was, Clay would be there. He would not leave his side. So, he settled on sitting, the least disruptive option, and tucked into his mind as shadows crossed the walls, and the clouded sun sank low in the sky.

He worried he was in too deep. After he had fallen asleep, Clay carried George to bed. He would’ve cradled him forever but he didn’t want him to be any sorer than he surely would be when he woke. When he finally collapsed on the couch, eyes never leaving the prince, the warmth hadn’t left his arms… It still hadn’t. His hands were empty, and the blood on his shirt dried, but the heat of George’s body was still there- like they were connected.

Clay jumped up, scratching at the back of his neck. It was a paranoid feeling, foolish, really, but he couldn’t help himself. It had happened several other times that day, the rush of fear, the panicked stride over to George’s sleeping body, and then he’d watch him, waiting for his chest to rise and fall in breath. Sometimes for good measure, he’d hover his finger under the prince’s nose, waiting for his exhale, however slight. And when he sank back onto the couch he’d bite his cheek, and shift his eyes, welcoming anything that could distract his mind from the burning embarrassment that came with the acknowledgment of his irrational behavior.

Of course, George wasn’t dead, or anywhere close to it, but- _that feeling_ \- he’d felt it before. And that’s what scared him most. Three years ago, Clay had been in love, it was subtle, it had to be, but it was love nonetheless. They passed each other notes and met at night behind tan military encampments. Clay had been softer back then, and his friend- boyfriend?- they’d never had time to get specific, kissed away frustrated tears that left tracks in the dust on his face. The men had been together since the middle of his first tour, and it was the middle of the second when he felt _the pull_ for the first time, a spring tightening as their souls ached for one another. He lay in his cot and the kisses lingered, tingling on his cheeks; his lover’s phantom hands rubbing his trembling back, soothing him to sleep, even as he sat watch half a kilometer away.

By the end of the second tour, the man he loved was dead. He died in his arms, but the feeling of him was still there, cupping his cheek, in secret touches on his waist, reminding Clay that it was _his_ fault he was gone. And what cruel irony, to have your tears wiped away by the very person you’re crying for. 

When he’d held him, kissed his last breath into him, the man had smiled against his lips. “Love me for as long as I’m alive,” he whispered. 

——————————

Clay jolted on the couch, wearily raising his head, heavy with sleep. The glow of several computer screens illuminated the dark room, and George sat in front of them, typing intermittently. 

He walked over to the prince and glanced out the window, it was pitch black. How long had he been asleep? More importantly, how long had George been up, alone? “You’re finally awake,” he started, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and shuffling awkwardly behind the leather desk chair.

George hummed in acknowledgment, clearly trying to maintain his concentration. When Clay made no move to leave, he exhaled lightly, “How long was I asleep?” He didn’t care, but if he had to talk it certainly wasn’t going to be about yesterday.

“Well, I don’t know, when did you wake up?” Clay took the bait, and circled around to the side of his desk, vying for eye contact. The prince’s stayed firmly glued to the screens. “Um- I don’t know…” his voice trailed off as he scrolled, highlighted, and retyped something.

“Okay,” Clay said mostly to himself, “I’m not going to let you do this.” His piercing gaze was full of conflicted concern, yet it remained unnoticed.

“What?” George asked, but it was absentminded, obligatory to fill the silence.

Clay took a step forward and raised his voice, it was harsh, but only because he was desperate for his attention. “You’re really _shit_ at coping, aren’t you?” 

A flurry of key taps crowded the air until George stopped to readjust the blanket that was draped over his shoulders, “I don’t know what you mean.” He tugged the blanket across his bare chest and began typing again.

The bodyguard let his eyes slowly roll, mapping every inch of the ceiling, and he shifted his weight, “C’mon George, I haven’t seen you genuinely happy since I met you, and honestly, I haven’t seen you make any _good_ attempts to feel better, okay? So pick something fun to do and let’s go do it.” He didn’t know that was where he was going when he started speaking, but the man before him was cold and unfeeling, and that paired with George’s proven impulsivity was a deadly combination. There was no chance he would be leaving him alone, not tonight. 

“What’s something you like to do?” He asked, ignoring the way George had snubbed his previous request. 

“Code.” The prince’s face was washed out by the unnatural light. Under his eyes and cheekbones were hollowed, and the bruised skin was taut and shiny from swelling. Clay thought he saw a twinge of a provoking eyebrow raise, but it was gone before he could be sure.

“No, no, no, _that’s_ a copout answer,” he crossed his arms, “I _know_ you aren’t having fun debugging whatever _that_ is…” As soon as he finished George slammed his hands on his desk hard enough that the keyboard gave a despairing clatter. His naive mouse hovered over the ‘Run’ button and an error message flashed on the screen. He exhaled and leaned back in his chair, frowning.

“Fine,” he conceded, “I like to swim.”

“Great!” Clay smiled, Let’s go then!”

George looked at him like he’d grown a second head, “Right now? It’s 3 A.M.”

The bodyguard nodded, offering his hand, “Right now.”

George sniffed and got up, avoiding his hand like the plague. The look on his face was one of annoyance, and he hiked up his blanket into a bundle around him at an excruciatingly slow pace. But when Clay turned to leave, he found the prince right on his heels like an excited puppy, almost breaking ahead of him. 

The truth was George didn’t just like swimming, he _loved_ it. And it was rare that he actually got to. As a child, his father had belittled him for it, made him feel ashamed that he hadn’t picked a “manlier” sport to perfect. If he’d been allowed to join a team, the prince might've been great. But when being caught with wet hair became a crime worthy of corporal punishment, George had pretty much abandoned the idea.

His obscure expression had been involuntary, and while he didn’t particularly care for the idea of swimming _with Clay_ , the cuts and bruises stung on his cheek, reminding him that time was of the essence. Kensington didn’t have a pool, and Buckingham’s was out of commission as long as his father was around to say anything about it. 

But he wasn’t, and it had been too long, and Clay was right, it would feel _so good._ The code was useless anyway, and though he wouldn’t admit it to himself, a certain dream had left his brain sloshed in champagne.

 _Fuck it._ If worst came to worst, he’d rather drown in a pool than his own thoughts.

—————————

“So, um, who’s Alex?” George stumbled briefly, and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He exhaled a small, strangled noise and Clay looked at him sideways, “What?”

“H-how do you know about Alex?” The prince kept his gaze dead ahead, trying to focus on his breathing. _Who could’ve told him?_ In all states of sobriety, _or lack thereof_ , George couldn’t think of a single time he’d brought up _the boy_ before. Nick barely even knew the whole story, and the name hadn’t been muttered in the palace in _years._ So, how was it some guy, who’d been here only a week, suddenly knew his whole backstory? It was grievously unsettling.

Next to him, Clay shrugged and checked his phone before quickly shutting it off. He bit the inside of his cheek and said nonchalantly, “Oh, you were just sleep talking and the name came up… anyone important?” He averted his eyes and the air in front of them felt thick as they trudged through a few moments of unnerving silence.

George was trying to figure out the best way to defuse the situation but it took longer than he would’ve liked. He wasn’t exactly known for his mitigation skills. When it was obvious more than an appropriate amount of time had passed, he released the first jumble of words that came to mind, “Oh, she’s no one. _Not important._ ”

“Oh.” _She?_ Clay knew for a fact Alex wasn’t a she, he’d just been nice enough to leave the details of _how_ he knew that out. But he wouldn’t pry out of sympathetic respect, though it hurt that George was still lying to him, especially after last night. _Damn._ He’d really wanted to talk about what went down, but maybe that wasn’t the way to go. He was quickly learning that direct confrontation was an almost guaranteed trigger for the prince. 

On cue, George brushed past him, excess blanket swishing behind him. “Yeah, she’s no one- we’re here!” His voice was too cheery, face too flushed, and he caught Clay’s attention with _eye contact_ as he pulled open the doors to the natatorium.

 _Yeah, Alex definitely wasn’t no one._ But he didn’t push any further, instead, he smiled, and clapped George amiably on the back as he entered. 

_What was that?_ If he was acting weird, Clay was practically a martian. The contact had been hard, and _disingenuous._ Nothing like the way he’d touched him the day before, gentle and compassionate. There was a pang of anxiety in his stomach; it made sense, Clay hated him just like his father did. He’d finally seen how weak and worthless he truly was. A small voice queried if that was true, why would he ask to go swimming with him then, but George shoved it down. Clay was _playing_ with him. Suddenly he felt sick, he was no better than a caged animal, and _this_ was nothing more than a child prodding its fingers through the bars. 

He didn’t feel much like swimming anymore, but there was no way he could get out of it now. _It’s fine,_ he reasoned, at least underwater he wouldn’t be able to entertain any more questions about his deepest darkest secret.

——————————

At some point during the night the rain had subsided, and the sky was clear through the windowed ceiling. There were no stars to be found though, only quilting darkness that left George feeling claustrophobic. He let the blanket slip from his shoulders as he turned his back to Clay, and began to undo his trousers. He soothed the sting of self-consciousness with the knowledge that he was but an object to the other man, not even a real person. 

It was the mindset he applied to the Switzerland Situation too, of course, everyone thought he was bedridden with the flu, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing. However, he’d learned long ago that it wasn’t worth the effort to care what the public thought beyond a general consensus. They saw him as HRH Prince George, a piece of the grand puzzle. But it was only what he did under the title that mattered to them; a _prince_ was quintessential to the monarchy, not _him_. They could despise the prince if they wanted to, but it wouldn’t make a difference to him. In a hundred years the history books would read, “The people hated the prince,” not, “They hated George.” 

At the same time, it was also a marvelous excuse to shut out the world. Minimal meaningful interactions meant less anxiety. If he never grew close to anyone he’d never have to worry about the pain of letting someone down, or face the dawn of judgment. His detached attitude made him wildly fun at parties, but left only a few exceptions when it came to friends. George was the shiest around the ones he cared for most, deathly afraid that he’d wake up one day completely alone. _But… wasn’t he already?_

_Fuck._ He’d come swimming to get out of his head, but here he was frozen on the pool deck, hands still fumbling with his belt. Clay hadn’t noticed, he was back on his phone again, squinting at something on the screen.

He walked over and dipped a foot in to test the water’s temperature. It was luxuriously warm, and he debated just leaning into it, letting it pull him, drag him into a comforting hug. It was like greeting an old friend. He slipped in from the edge, delighted at the sudden weightlessness of his body. It was surprising, how much tension he’d been carrying in his back and shoulders, how they unfurled like strips of velvet. George stretched his arms, splayed his fingers on the water’s surface, and tipped his head back. He stayed like that, letting the water lap at his face until it was placid once again. 

When he looked back up, Clay was getting undressed. No, that was doing it a disservice. His shoulders stretched against his shirt as he undid each button. He eased it over his arms, and down his back and every god damned inch rippled with toned muscle. And what was worse were the freckles. George had gotten an idea what his body was like when he’d been caught by the bodyguard in Geneva, but the t-shirt had gotten in the way of oh so many important details. The spots were sun kisses, dappling the tops of his shoulders and arms. They only intrigued George more, and he desperately wanted to know what he’d been doing shirtless for long enough to earn them. 

His eyes lazed down to the small of his back, appreciating the slight curve of his waist, the fat that gave body to hips. Next, the pants were coming off, and _oh God,_ he had to stop looking. He inhaled and plunged underwater.

Clay perked up at the noise, water rippling as he watched George swim to the bottom. He looked peaceful, limbs loosening as tiny bubbles escaped his mouth. He finished undoing his trousers, and walked to the edge of the pool, gazing up through the skylight. It was too late, or early rather, for the moon to be at its peak, and he spotted it through massive windows overlooking the terrace as it wilted into the tree line. 

George still hadn’t resurfaced. His dark hair floated around him, the only part of his body that showed signs of life. The rest of him was still, suspended in glass. His boxers were light blue and only made him look paler. Clay noticed how bony he was, how his hipbones were sharp, and his collarbones formed deep oases. The blur of the water made everything feel dreamy, like a soft-focus picture from the ‘30s. He let his eyes wander up from his waist, to his jaw, to his lips which were- _blue?_

Clay felt his stomach lurch, _how long had he been under?_ He jumped in, dragging the prince to his chest, panicked. George was thrashing against him before they’d even resurfaced, and shoved him off immediately. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” He shouted, and Clay sensed the aggression came from shock, rather than anger.

“I- your lips were blue! I thought you drowned!” He sputtered.

“You idiot, I can hold my breath for a long time. And my lips aren’t _blue_ , I’m just pale.” George glared at him and began treading water, putting more distance between them. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Clay _did_ look apologetic, as much as the prince hated to admit it. 

He rolled his eyes, “It’s fine I guess,” and he knew it was just the pool water on his face, but _damn it if they didn’t look like tears._ “Are you any good at swimming?” He offered in consolation. 

Clay blushed, struggling to keep his head above water while he tiptoed to the shallow end. “Not really-” he gasped pathetically, and George almost laughed, “which is ironic because I lived in Florida for most of the time I was in the states.”

The bodyguard looked sheepish despite his impressive frame, and it was practically charming the words right out of the prince. “Oh, really? I’ve been there, it’s nice.” He’d spent a wild night off the coast of Key West on Nick’s yacht a few years ago, and he remembered it fondly. Clay was still trying to gain his composure on the other end of the pool, and George decided to show off, swimming the entire length to him in one breath. He surfaced and Clay’s eyes widened in surprise. “So why don’t you swim?”

“I don’t know… I lived near an orange grove and I had more fun there, I guess.” He gripped at the side, and his voice trailed off. The prince could tell he was remembering, and something inside him pulled him toward the man, an intense desire to know exactly what was going on inside his head. It was strange too, but he was pretty sure he could still feel where Clay had grabbed to “save” him, a phantom heat on his chest.

“I don’t buy it,” he started slyly, “that was a pretty impressive dive you just did.” The sarcasm dripped from his voice but Clay was too gone to process anything more than the words themselves.

Snapping back to reality, he asked, “Really?” 

He was hopeful, and George almost felt bad, but it had been _his_ shit week, and it was time someone else suffered. “Yeah, you should try it again!” He plastered on the most encouraging voice he could, though it was hard to contain his amusement. 

“Actually?” Clay looked at him skeptically, “I have no clue what I did.” 

“Just try!” George bounced in the water, grinning, and _fuck,_ if he was going to do _that_ then he had to try, no matter how poorly it would inevitably go.

Clay hoisted himself out of the pool, and George malfunctioned for a full second as he watched water drip off his body, sparkling. The bodyguard was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice, begging himself to recall even the first step of diving. He stood and joined his hands over his head, calling to the other side, “Ready?” The prince nodded eagerly. 

When he emerged, George’s laughs mixed with the water in his ears. “Oh my god, you’re really _shit_ at swimming, aren’t you?” He was treading next to him, unbelievably smug for having mustered the thought, at 3 A.M. no less, to throw Clay’s line back in his face.

“Fuck you! You said I was good!” The words were loud and echoey in the glass room, but his tone was light. Half drowned, the blonde man used his last bit of strength to splash the prince. 

George yelped before splashing him back. “Yeah,” he snorted, “I _lied_.” 

“Fine, let’s see you dive then.” Clay pouted, feigning offense.

From the way his eyes twinkled, George could tell he was counting on a failure just as horrific as his. It was a mistake on his part, and the prince wanted to make sure he learned his lesson as painfully as possible. He jutted his chin up defiantly, swimming a little closer to him, “Are you challenging me right now? I’m a _prince_ , I’m obligated to be good at everything I do.” It was only a joke, but there was some truth behind it. 

Clay puffed in front of him, meeting his gaze, “Yeah, you gonna do something about it, _Your Highness_?”

George huffed, and it was his turn to pull himself out of the water. He remembered how he’d looked at Clay, and had to remind himself that _no_ , he wasn’t self-conscious, not around _this guy._ Honestly, maybe it was the chlorine or the fact that no one should be up this late, but his brain fuzzed. Did he really despise Clay? Playful, overconfident, shit at diving- but _hot_ , Clay? He’d made him _laugh,_ and after a week like he’d had- that was saying something. He didn’t bother checking in with the bodyguard-he could feel his eyes on him- and dove gracefully into the pool.

Just to gloat, George swam the length of the pool again, flipping his wet hair into Clay’s face when he finally reached him. “See, I told you, _perfect_!” He splashed at the man in triumph, but he was stony-faced and seemed strangely detached from his body. The prince recognized the look and the feeling that accompanied it immediately. 

“Hey! it’s one thing if I’m miserable but are _you_ even having a good time right now? I thought that was the whole point of this was to have fun.” He hesitated and then gently pushed Clay’s shoulder to ground him. 

Clay shook his head, and blinked a few times, before remembering where he was. He could usually withhold the anxiety, but it was always harder this deep into the evening, especially now, on the off chance he was actually in water. Smiling weakly he replied, “I’m not… but _you_ are, and that’s what matters.” He made a feeble attempt to splash the prince, trying to get the attention off of him. 

He didn’t want to apologize, but a pang of guilt changed his mind and George softened even more, “I- I’m sorry if I made you upset. It really doesn’t matter if you can swim or not.” He sank back into the water, doubtful that was the true issue.

“It’s not that,” Clay sighed, and he finally seemed to reoccupy his body, “And I _can_ swim,” he eyed George, raising his eyebrows to break the tension, “I just don’t exactly _like it._ ”

The prince stayed silent, contemplating the ambiguity of Clay’s expression. It felt wrong grouping him in with the rest of the public, and as he analyzed his face he realized- he _did_ care. 

“I can tell you why if you want,” he sounded fragile.

Whenever he was in one of his moods, Nick would crack a joke, try and get him laughing, even if it was at his own misfortune. He’d try that, George decided, and he hoped it would work. “Sure, I mean you’re here now so it’s not like anyone dies at the end.” The second it left his lips he wished he could shove it back in.

Clay’s face dropped, and he began to stutter, “Ah- um, that’s actually-”

“ _God,_ I’m an idiot-” alarms went off in his head a hair too late, and a fresh blush spread over his entire body. Why the _hell_ would he say that? It was just his fucking luck someone would actually be dead.

“No it’s-” Clay cut him off, but the prince knew he had to take responsibility.

“No, _I’m sorry,_ I don’t know why I made a joke like that. It’s late but… that’s no excuse.”

“George it’s okay,” His voice was low but steady, and the prince’s jaw tightened, he _loved_ when Clay said his name. To his surprise, his bodyguard was laughing to himself, “I mean you kind of ruined the climax of the story but it’s fine. My dad got caught in a riptide when I was a kid, and he um- he didn’t make it. So, that’s why I don’t really like to swim.” He was smiling kindly, but there was pain behind his eyes, and George felt like shit. 

“Christ, I’m so sorry.” He exhaled and leaned back against the edge next to Clay, trying to think of something, _anything_ , better to say. 

“It’s really fine. I’ve been okay with it for a long time now.” He pulled himself up, settling on the pool deck and George got out, busying himself in a search for the spare towels. 

He returned a few minutes later, and handed one to him, “I have a question.” He waited for permission as Clay began drying himself off.

“Shoot.”

“How did you make it?”

“What do you mean?” 

George paused, standing in front of Clay he felt like an insolent child. Despite being the same age, he had an aura about him that exuded maturity and experience. The prince felt years behind his old soul, but _maybe_ it wasn’t as obnoxious as he’d first perceived. “How did you make yourself okay with it… I mean, how did you keep on living, knowing that he was _gone_?”

Clay looked at him, surprised, and sat down on the end of a lounge chair. George perched opposite him and folded his hands together in concentration. 

“Well, it’s different for everyone,” he started, “but I think what got me through it was love. I knew he loved me, and he knew I loved him. It makes me less sad, I think, to know he died with that.” George nodded, completely engrossed, and Clay could see him taking mental notes. “But also,” he continued, “I know that he didn’t want my life to end with his. He had a plan for me, ambitions. And though he left before I got to hear them, he didn’t leave me blindly guessing, you know? I could sort myself out.” The last part hadn’t been about his father, but George didn’t need to know that.

The prince nodded again, jerky and fervid. It worried Clay, he hadn’t expected to get so personal tonight, and George was already emotionally unstable. “Are you asking because of your brother?”

Truthfully? Alistair hadn’t even crossed George’s mind since yesterday, and that was the _right_ answer, but he figured he owed Clay honesty after everything he’d shared. “No. I think I fucked things up with Nick,” he bit out, “Really badly, Clay. I think he hates me, but I don’t know if I can make it without him.” He took shaky, shallow breaths and the man across from him reached for his hand, rubbing his thumb soothingly on his palm. 

“Hey, I wouldn’t worry about that too much, okay?” George looked at him with big doe eyes, “As long as he’s still around you’ve got time to talk, figure things out.”

The prince huddled under his towel, bringing his knees to his chest. In a small voice, he asked, “Well, what if he doesn’t want to talk to me?” 

Clay squeezed his hand reassuringly, “He’s been your friend for a long time, right? So if he cares about you the way you clearly care about him, he’ll listen to you, and I’m sure you’ll be fine.” 

“Really?” he sniffled.

“ _Really,_ ” Clay smiled, “Everything is going to be just fine.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let's chat. There was supposed to be a super angsty scene at the end of this but honestly I wanted to get this out tonight and it would've made this chapter push 8k. I didn't want to cram too much into one chapter so I've decided to push it into 6, and let me tell you, everything is _not_ going to be fine. I was fine with where I ended today though, sometimes George needs to end in a good place :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for your support! I am going to say 1-2 weeks for the next chapter, though I might need to take a break tomorrow bc I do need to catch up on some homework and figure out some holiday stuff. We will see.
> 
> Happy Holidays, everyone! <3
> 
> Also fun little author fact- key west has a cameo in this chapter bc i was born there! :)


	6. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw! this chapter contains self harm (scratching), suicidal ideation, and mentions of conversion therapy
> 
> Aw, did last chapter end on a good note? Cute.  
> George talks to Clay, is he hiding something?  
> George talks to Nick, is it really over?  
> A letter is recovered.  
> How's Alistair doing? Does anyone know? Does anyone care?  
> I think it's about time we go see Phil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm back. It snowed where I live this week and let me tell you, that is like an instant mental block for me so my apologies for the chapter being a couple days late. I did do a lot of storyboarding on the days I didn't write though, so I'm more confident in the plot as a whole :)  
> Thank you, as always, for all of your lovely support and messages. You keep me motivated <3  
> If you ever have a question, message, etc. you don't want to put in the comments feel free to dm me on twitter @skeleemon :)
> 
> I don't think there's anything extra to mention for this chapter, maybe just buckle in?  
> Also, Phil is like fully an adult in this story, probably in his 50s  
> please check tw's in the summary 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The air was humid and receding clouds had been replaced with distant thunderheads that flickered threateningly on the horizon. George stood on the terrace, one of his hands gripping the balustrade, the other holding his phone; Both were cold, skin white with exertion. On the lake, distorted reflections of the natatorium’s bright windows sparkled. He’d wandered out here when Clay had apologized, phone buzzing, promising that he did need to take it. 

George was lured by the lightning. Thunderstorms were rare in London, the sky so often seasick, but never relieving itself. The terrace was large, connecting to at least a third of the palace’s back rooms, but he stuck firmly to the right side - the left was barely spared a look, avoided at all costs for years, never to be visited again in waking. 

He shifted uncomfortably, everything was damp and nothing was going to dry any time soon in the saturated air. The towel wrapped around his hips felt heavy and constricting, but that was no different to his skin. Water clung to his pale body, and when he breathed too deeply, it felt like cellophane stretched too tightly over his bones. Picking up his phone and hitting the blue ‘call’ icon felt like being suffocated and waterboarded simultaneously. 

“Hello?” The voice was warm, and George’s eyes fluttered shut when he heard it. He hadn’t blocked him. 

“Hello? I- it’s- um- it’s George.” He stuttered, throwing an arm around his own waist in figurative protection.

“Yeah, I know who it is,” Nick grumbled, his tone was suddenly sharp and it left the prince chilled. “Why are you calling?” 

The genuine resent threw him off guard, completely wiping the prepared speech from his mind. His subconscious took over, and selfish truth fell from his lips. “I just wanted to hear your voice…” The prince’s eyes snapped open and he silently cursed himself. 

There was an exasperated exhale from the other side of the line. “No. You don’t get to do that.” It came off unsure, diffident hatred. Nick swallowed hard, and he raised his voice to steady it. “I don’t care if you’re a prince- whatever. We aren’t friends anymore, George. You’ve made that perfectly clear. Now, Goodnight.” 

“Nick please-” George’s body tensed, and his bony hips jutted painfully into the balustrade as he keeled forward, terrified the response would be the disconnect tone. 

“I’m going back to bed George.” Nick sounded sure, the sleep was gone from his voice. He spoke like a teacher telling off his student on the last day of school. He was _done. “_ I don’t know what you’re doing up this late, but my imagination certainly doesn’t have to work hard,” he scoffed, “I _said_ goodnight; only my friends get the privilege of waking me up with their issues.” 

The prince prodded his fingers into his side where they rested on the caverns between his ribs. His nails scratched nervous red tracks into his skin as he tried to muster up the reason why he’d even made the call. “No- I’m not even-”

“Not even what, George? Not even high? That doesn’t change _anything,”_ He spat. The prince dug into himself until tears pricked his eyes. “You picked the _bag_ over me. You _chose_ to forget, completely shit on a fucking decade of friendship-” Nick was confident and George was crumbling. _He actually hated him- “_ So, forgive me if I’m not congratulating you on your 72 hours of sobriety because you and I both know it _wasn’t your choice._ ” 

And it was true, stinging even more than his torn up ribs. George’s head jerked up at the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. There was a pause between the two as he tried to figure out what to say. This was _nothing_ like their normal spats, impossible as a hurricane in London. Still, low mocking claps permeated the silence, and the malefic wind ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “it was a _mistake_.” His voice was dying, choked with intention. It had never been this hard to talk to his friend. _If he even was…_ “Please, _please_ , forgive me. I was so stupid, Nick!”

There was plenty left to say but he was cut off. “It’s not a fucking mistake when you keep making it, George! Did you even read my letter?” The anger was evident in the accusation, but it only confused the prince. 

“What letter?” He asked, half listening. Surely, they were almost to the part where Nick forgave him. 

“Of course you didn’t.” George could practically hear his eyes roll as Nick’s disappointment overwhelmed his senses. His knuckles tightened until he could feel his flesh push against his fingernail beds. _Fuck_ , it hurt but not nearly enough, not nearly as much as this. 

_“What letter?”_ He cried, wracking his mind for every piece of paper he’d seen since his return home. Horrid newspapers and incriminating tabloids were all he could recall. 

“Jesus, you really went through the whole bag and didn’t even see it…” 

“I- what?” The bag was the eye of the storm, chaos varying from blur to full blackout depending on the vicinity. George was at a loss when it came to the contents, but he didn’t know why the specific narcotics mattered. They were just drugs, _right?_

Rain began to fall as the blanket of clouds slipped over the palace. The stars felt distant again like Clay’s advice, _Everything is going to be just fine_. The words felt no more relevant than a burning ball of gas millions of miles away. 

“We’re done, George… Don’t call me again.” 

“Nick wait!” _This couldn’t be happening._ The line clicked and a faint glow spread over his cheek. He pulled the phone away like it burned and pressed the ‘call’ button frantically. _Maybe he slipped_. It rang once before going to voicemail. _Fuck._ ‘Outgoing Call- 2 seconds.’ He read the words on the glass over and over until he was sure they’d be carved into the screen when he finally turned it off. 

“God _damn it!_ ” He yelled into the trees and slammed his phone down. Seizing the ledge before him, he closed open palms to fists slowly, scraping his fingertips against the rough stone. He tipped his head back grimacing, and wailed. The raindrops were interspersed with hailstones, and they pelted down on him, melting into open wounds. 

_He was completely alone._

——————————

_What fucking letter?_

George felt a hand on his shoulder, and he stiffened. Clay tugged him, blissfully unaware of the prince’s blossoming rage.

“Christ, come in, it’s about to be a mess out here-” George whirled on him, eyes blazing.

“You _lied,”_ He spat, and shook off Clay’s hand. “Nick _hates_ me.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked confused, and made a reaching gesture but stopped short when the prince recoiled, wedging himself against the absolute edge of the terrace. 

George rolled his eyes, and Clay could see the tears that welled beneath them, he spoke harshly, but the words were full of startled scorn. “Well, I took your advice. I called him- and he hates me-”

Clay frowned and raised a hand to shield his face from the downpour. “He said that? He said ‘I hate you?’” 

_What did that have to do with anything?_ George bit the inside of his cheek and ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Well no, but he basically said that’s what’s in the letter.”

“Wait, what letter? What are you talking about.”

“Oh don’t fucking pretend like you don’t what the letter is.” _The nerve he had._ The prince bit out each word as Clay slowly destroyed every bit of faith inside him. 

“George, I honestly have no idea. Can we at least talk inside, you look freezing…” He was desperate and the rain was close to sheeting. He felt utterly helpless as the prince devoured him with furious eyes. 

“I’ll do what I damn well please,” George took a menacing step forward, wind at his back howling in encouragement, “I don’t need your pity.” 

“Pity you?” What the hell had Nick even said to him? The soft prince with doe eyes and honeyed lips of half an hour ago was unrecognizable in the beast before him. “You’re making no sense,” he pleaded, “Please, just come inside.” 

“Well, what else would you call it?” George chuckled darkly and stepped into the light pooling onto the terrace. Deep scratches under his ribs glowed ruby red and Clay’s heart broke as the prince tore into him, body shaking with every gasp. “Do you expect me to believe it’s just _convenient timing_ that you drag me out of my room to go swimming as my entire world falls apart?! Did you just tell me about your dad dying for fun, or because of Alastair? You hold my fucking hand and tell me everything will be fine while hiding the damned letter from me? _No_.” He pointed a finger into Clay’s chest, and looked directly into his eyes,“ _Fuck you,_ and _fuck_ your pity.” 

The bodyguard caught George’s wrist and held his hand to his chest. For a moment, the only sound was rain and London beginning to wake up. Clay exhaled, “George, I like you.” Something moved behind angry eyes. “I was trying to be your friend. I swear, I’m just as clueless about the letter as you are.” 

_"Friends_. Don’t. Lie.” He ripped his hand from his grasp and checked Clay’s shoulder as he passed him. “You’re treating me like a child.” 

The bodyguard stumbled, disoriented by the prince’s power trip. Hadn’t they gotten past this? Or had he just imagined it? The idea made him defensive, that somehow he’d made it all up in his head. Been _so_ delusional that- _Jesus, he’d kissed him, hadn’t he?_ “Please-” George turned, halfway back to the doors, “Where’s the letter? Let me find it for you.” The hem of Clay’s t-shirt flicked in the wind, his blonde hair sticking to his face as the storm finally burst overhead.

“Apparently it’s in the bag- the one you were so eager to get your hands on,” Clay cocked his head, “Don’t tell me you didn’t rip it apart on the trip home,” George scoffed, “And _don’t_ try hiding shit.” 

_Fuck._ He hadn’t prepared _this_ speech but he was running out of things to say. Hoping his blush wasn’t evident in the shadows the bodyguard yelled over the squall, _"I’m_ hiding shit? George, what am I hiding? I’m more than happy to tell you _everything_ that happened at the gala.” It was aggressive, yes, but it was the only way to scare him away from the issue. He wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. 

George’s face was unreadable the moments before it fell. Finally, he walked back into the palace, Clay trailing behind him. The prince kept his back to him and let his breath escape in barely a whisper. “Don’t…” There’d been an edge to the bodyguard’s voice when he’d threatened him. The same edge that had been there when he’d questioned him once before. But his memory remained radio silent, and he had only the feeling in his gut to discourage him.

“What’s that now?” Clay asked, hostility leering, as he shut the doors behind them. 

“I don’t want to know.” George continued, walking away, shucking off the now drenched towel from his hips. 

Something about the prince’s nonchalance, his blithe ignorance, or maybe it was the memory, resurfacing unexpectedly- whatever it was had broken him, left him agitated, and vengeful. He cared - _damn it -_ too much to let this bastard walk all over him. The row was nearly unwinnable- _nearly_. “Fucking hell George,” he spat, _"I_ carried you from the gala to the plane, _I_ held you all the way home. _I_ stuck my fingers _down your throat_ for God’s sake, made you purge all those pills-”

George had frozen, blanket loose around his arms. His heart pounded in his chest but all Clay could see was his temple pulsing. He cut him off, “I _said ‘_ I don’t want to know!’” It was too much. It was too much. The not knowing- it was far too much. 

“Fine!” He was never going to say more than that, but what if he had? The possibility lingered on his tongue until he shoved it back down. “I’m just trying to tell you I have _no_ idea what was in that bag- the only thing I saw was the inside of your stomach. But I’m happy to go look now. It might still be in an office somewhere.” 

The prince wore a glassy expression and he slowly wrapped the blanket over his shoulders, hugging into himself dejectedly. “I- just bring me the letter. I’ll be in my room.” Clay nodded, but he barely managed enough eye contact to be sure he’d seen it. 

And then he was gone, departing in a flash of scarlet swaddled between fleece drapes. As he rounded the corner, George folded his fingers over his arms, trying to massage back the memory of Clay’s hands on him, holding him - protecting him, on the way home from Sweden.

——————————

_Dear George,_

_I miss you. You've been gone a while now._

The envelope was discarded, ripped on the floor. Clay hadn’t even made it into his room, he’d snatched it through the crack in the door, begun reading whilst still standing. 

_I’d like to come and visit but the trips are killing me. Sometimes I think I can live with only the physical closeness, but it doesn’t matter when your soul is so far away. God forgive me, but it stopped being worth it after a while. The blood and tears and sweat-soaked shirts are our currency; I want to pay you in laughter and smiles and love. And this? This is not love,_

_George. We used to have a thousand lives between us, and they were not perfect, but they were beautiful. It was simple. We lived in peaches and pears, the dirt on the soles of our feet, in Texas heat and London fog._

His eyes ran over the lines quickly, finding no defining meaning in trivial memories. It seemed a natural progression to him, growing up, away from the earth.

_We had our first kisses on the same day, do you remember? I told you mine tasted like honey, but you said yours wasn’t as good. “As good as what?” I asked. You shrugged, we dropped it._

_I lied, George. But you hid, hid the truth, hid your smile, stole a secret life for yourself. You fancied yourself a thief, and perhaps you still do; I was sure of it actually. Why else would you steal so much time? If you aren’t a thief, why do you hack away at the most valuable moments of your life, secreting them behind a wall panel?_

Blood rushed to his cheeks, nearly sending him into a head rush. Catching himself on the edge of the settee, the prince fought to silence echoes of Alex for the second time that day, resent bristling under his skin. If only Nick knew the whole story, the _real_ first kiss- but he wouldn’t, would he? George couldn’t condemn him for what he was positive he’d purposefully withheld. 

_You told me later, do you remember? Your confidence was at the bottom of a liquor bottle. Don’t worry, I don’t remember what you said- your confidence was at the_ bottom _of a liquor bottle._

A breathy gasp escaped him as the memory resurfaced. He _had_ told him, after all. His body forced panic, but his mind replaced it with crushing guilt. He’d had enough courage at fifteen to confess to Nick what he couldn’t even admit to himself in adulthood. George read on, fleeing his thoughts. 

_We were just kids, George, but suddenly our walls were glass and our air was amber, and everything was hazy. I felt woozy, you said it felt good. You said it felt good- until it felt so good that you were gone- and I was alone, another life down, nine hundred-ninety-eight to go._

_You came back. “Better,” you said. But ‘better,’ meant better at hiding. Better at running from the sun like it had your bounty, better at dodging the events we used to love, better at covering up the bruises on your body._

_You took ‘better’ and made it ‘new.’ New George, the guy who went to bed at nine, suddenly aced his schoolwork, talked foreign policy with ambassadors’ daughters. But then ‘new’ wasn’t ‘better’ enough, and every time I came to see you it was a sick game. How many orange bottles would be discarded under the sofa? How many pills were you crushing into a line? How many hours would you sleep after drugging yourself to unconsciousness at nine?_

The prince tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, it was itchy suddenly, too tight, like the ones at rehab. It hurt how simultaneously right and wrong Nick was. The program _had_ made him better at hiding, but they’d scared him into it. His sobriety had only been a byproduct of the time spent locked away, and the relapse inevitable, fueled by self-loathing that they marketed as “healing.” It hadn’t been so much rehabilitation as it was conversion. Nick had hated the new version of himself as much as he had.

_You weren’t unwell, or doing poorly. You were_ sick, _and God only knows, George, how many hours I’ve spent on my knees begging heaven and hell to forgive what you’d done, to curse me instead- I was young, but not to the point of naivety- I could’ve gotten you help- should’ve. But I was selfish._

_I thought, “he’s taken so many of our lives, used up so much of our precious time- surely, any minute now, he’ll pull back the curtain, show me what he’s made of it.” I hoped, George, you were hiding something. Imagine that._

He smiled sadly, his fate was already sealed. Praying did nothing - faith - meant nothing.

_It slowed, thankfully, when we started university, and I forgot about the tally. You were no longer ticking them off like seconds to the minute. I saw a passion in you that burned hotter, brighter than any lighter reflected on the bottom of a spoon. I never told you how proud I was- how proud I still am._

_George, I am so proud of you, always._

Tears threatened his vision, “I don’t deserve that,” he whispered. And how could he mean it? How could Nick _really_ mean it if this was all just to leave him?

_But I have to go now, and I won’t follow you this time. I think it’s only fair if I tell you why, but mostly I’m going to tell you so you don’t call me in a day when I regret ever saying this._

Quiet hope flickered in his heart, perhaps there was still a chance Nick’s anger had only been his contrition. He managed to stumble to the edge of the desk. 

_You’re killing yourself, George, and me with you. That’s what happens when you’re soulmates. It’s the reason I knew when you’d used up some of our lives, it’s the reason those lives were_ ours _to begin with._

_I was foolish to think our whiskey promises were solidified by a bottle of scotch. You kept it locked up with your secrets, and the poison seeped in, waiting to be drunk. When you finished it, did it taste of the truth? It was bitter in my mouth this morning after you called. It burned my throat like sick._

The Macallan bottle remained in his room by order of his mother. She hadn’t known it was a token of his betrayal, a shrine to relapse.

_It’s painful loving you, Georgie. I devoted my adolescence to it, to the beautiful thing that had yet to be unveiled. What’s beauty without pain, that’s what they say, isn’t it?_

_But we’re grown up now, and the sunsets and quiet mornings and poppy fields in the summer have turned into harsh sunrises and impossibly loud music and opiates. And our youth is gone and I see that there’s beauty in waking up, and first kisses, and smiles- and we hate it all._

_It’s been you and me against the world for a while now, but honestly I can’t remember why._

_So, George, this is where I leave you. This is where I walk ahead._

He didn’t dare breathe, he would’ve stopped his heart if he could’ve. Anything to keep the past from becoming the present, the present leading into a cold and solitary future. Unfortunately, not even a prince could bend time, and he became acutely aware of a far-off clock's menacing tick, metronomic, steady, _unending_. 

_I’ve always wondered how aware you were of the soulmate thing. You had to be, I reasoned, you were losing pieces of your soul! But then you took some of mine this morning, burned it right in front of me. You did it with such skill, such ease, it was finally clear to me - this is what you’ve been doing all along._

_There is nothing beautiful waiting for me. Each piece of your soul, our soul combined- each piece you’ve taken is gone for good. A life we will never get back._

_A mistake, surely._

_But it isn’t. You don’t make a mistake a thousand times, it doesn’t rot your soul. A mistake doesn’t torture its victims, unscrew bottle caps for them. A mistake isn’t evil like that, but addiction is._

_I’m so sorry, that I never saw it. Never asked what was moving behind your eyes- that I let it touch you, hurt you, scar you like it has._

_I see it now. I taste the poison on our lips, and I am afraid._

_The truth? I am running away. Not forever, but a while. It almost got me too, and for once I don’t think it’s better if we’re together._

_I will never be far. I’m part of your soul, you’re part of mine. If it’s worth anything to you, George, not the disease-_ you _\- it hasn’t gotten you yet, not completely. I can tell. There’s still time to run._

_You need to run._

_I love you, and I’ll wait for you at the end. Always,_

_Nick_

——————————

George lowered the pages to his desk with trembling fingers. So _that_ was the letter. 

The world spun around him, and tears clung, slick on his eyelashes. The words were simple enough, but something prevented him from understanding. The letters, they were familiar, but their use- lost on him.

There was acceptance. Mourning acceptance. Nick wasn’t leaving him out of the blue- he was broken, useless. One didn’t live lavishly without being acutely aware of the waste, George just didn’t know how to live after being deemed as such. It made him ache for each plate he’d left unfinished, every symphony sacrificed for sleep.

Lips, unkissed.

George slumped in his chair, giving in to the exhaustion that had been building all night. It spun once, and his tired eyes fluttered, the seams of the universe coming undone, starting at his desk. An unspoken question demanded to be answered but- a knock at the door.

“Come in,” the prince groaned and swiveled to Clay. His voice was wrecked, raspy with sobs that had stopped short in his throat.

“Hey, are you okay?” Clay winced at the context but continued searching George’s face for clues. He looked so ghastly that part of him wished he _had_ kept the letter from him.

The prince didn’t respond, but he lifted himself from the chair and walked to the wardrobe, busying himself with the clothes inside.

“Are you going somewhere?” Clay joked, walking up behind him. George’s shoulders tensed, and the bodyguard felt like he’d violated him. He’d never been good at delivering serious news, but apologies would have to wait. “I have something to tell you.” 

A pair of jeans thrown on the bed declined his offer. The prince rummaged through the closet, and Clay watched him critically inspect two jumpers that must’ve been different on a spiritual level because to the plain eye they were identical.

“What are you looking for?” He offered. 

“My fucking shoes,” George yelled into cotton and silk garb, “where are they?” He was on his knees, feeling around the floor. 

_Oh. Is he actually leaving?_ “Where are you going?!” Clay asked again, twilight was on the horizon and it worried him. If everything was normal, George would be settling into bed by now, preparing to sleep away the daylight. 

“To Phil’s.” He announced bluntly, “I need to see him.” Finally, he emerged from the wardrobe with a handful of clothes and walked up to Clay expectantly. It was as if he was driven by a machine, completely stoic despite his disheveled appearance. 

The bodyguard sputtered, and took in the shorter man before him, at a loss for words. “What?” Was all he could manage. The conversation was utterly derailed, and his phone buzzed in his pocket, reminding him of the unyielding urgency.

“Move.” George rolled his eyes before circling around the flustered blonde and escaping into the bathroom.

“Wait!” The door stopped, centimeters from shutting. Cautious eyes peered out before darkening. “Your brother, Alastair- he isn’t dead.” The eyes widened and then the door was closed.

Clay continued talking into the locked door, trying to coax even a single reaction out of the prince. “That’s what my phone call was earlier, but they just confirmed it. The body isn’t your brother’s, so as far as your parents are concerned, he’s still alive.”

Inside the bathroom, George was internally hurtling toward destruction. His demeanor was calm, carefully picked from an internal folder of diplomatic options. Alastair’s apparent survival only expedited the need to see Phil, made himself more expendable. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pieces of shattered mirror refracted in his memory. The evidence was long gone, cleaned, replaced, spotless, just like any of his other messes, just like he could be. The prince tugged a jumper roughly over his head, using every fibre of his being to prevent himself from doing something reckless, irrational. He wouldn’t, he promised himself. Not until he talked to Phil. But _Jesus,_

it’s hard to sustain what you so loathe.

——————————

“Phil? _Phil._ ” George pounded on the door of the flat. It was just barely past six, and Clay was on edge clearing the surrounding street, he hadn’t had time to collect the rest of the prince’s security team. The entire thing had been unplanned, actually, and remained unclear since George was mute on the drive over. There was a sense of finality in the air, it unnerved him.

“Who- _oh, Your Highness-_ can I help you?” A blonde woman stood in the doorway. She was still in pajamas but even squinting in the early morning light George could see the bags under her eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” George questioned. Her reaction was strange, not excited enough to be a regular citizen, but not formal enough to be a forgotten acquaintance. And on top of all that, he looked more surprised to see her than she did him. He didn’t like her, he decided.

“I’m Rebecca…” he shot her a quizzical glance, “Phil’s daughter?”

“Oh… oh, that’s right. Rebecca.” The name was unnatural in his mouth but he wasted little time to dwell on it. Pushing past her, he barged into the apartment, “Phil?”

“Hey! You can’t just-”

“I’m in here, mate.” It surprised both of them it seemed. Rebecca quickly turned toward a door that was slightly ajar, her jaw slackening. George took note and strode across the living room, stopping only when a firm hand grasped his arm.

“Please,” she begged, “don’t stay long, he’s very sick- and if anything else compromises his immune system then-”

Outside, someone began banging on the door and Rebecca moved to get it before throwing the prince one last expression of entreatment. “George! I swear to God, you shouldn’t even be here in the first place, now let me in before I break this door down!” Clay’s commotion was loud even if muffled by brick and mortar. She looked mortified, and the prince took the opportunity to slip into the bedroom.

He wished he hadn’t.

The man in the bed was no one he knew, a shell of a human. His body was a fraction of its former size, and the sheets tented on protruding hip bones and the bottom of his rib cage. “Phil…” he began, and caught his jaundiced gaze, “what’s happened?”

A ghost of a grin crossed the man’s face. “Oh you know, rough night.” He tried to twirl his IV for effect, but George swiftly sank to his side, grasping the feeble hands in his own.

“I don’t understand, you were just fine two weeks ago, weren’t you?” It had to be a cruel joke, a bad dream. Every time George blinked he felt like someone else slipped away. 

“Well, I was diagnosed about two months ago, but by the time they got in there, it had metastasized so I decided that I might as well just keep working until I couldn’t. Sorry kid, that early retirement was too good to pass up,” he sighed tiredly. “Oh well, I’ve been telling Becca that’s what they should put on the pamphlet for pancreatic cancer, right? ‘Fastest disease known to man.’ I’m not sure though, don’t really know the demographic well enough, they keep dying before I can get any useful information out of them.” He chuckled, but it was defined only by the flutter of bedsheets on his shaky chest.

The prince did his best to smile before regarding him sternly, “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” the bed-ridden man shot back. His body was weak but his mind was clearly still sharp. That almost made it worse, George thought. The world was losing not just a person, but his musings, memories, ingenuity - all gone. It would be a waste.

The prince nodded grimly. Quite sure he would cry if they kept talking about it, he changed the subject, “You never told me you had a daughter.”

“Yes, Becca.”

“You never told me about her.”

They paused as something in the main room banged, Clay presumably getting into the apartment.

“You never asked.”

“Yes, but she’s like a proper adult!” George had forgotten how difficult it was to stall around Phil, he always saw right through his bullshit.

On cue, he squeezed the prince’s hand knowingly, “So are you.” It was a gentle reminder of the time passed and time passing. A loving nudge that he would answer anything, _so long as he inquired._

“Phil… I- I’ve been thinking.” He stuttered, still waiting for Clay to burst in, but Rebecca had apparently subdued him, for all he could hear was tremulous breath. Whether it was Phil’s or his own- he did not know. 

“You do that often, I’ve noticed.” His brow furrowed as he looked into the eyes of the prince. They were old, weathered, quite a bit more so than when he’d seen him last.

George chickened out at the last second, “I’m here about Alastair, you know he’s gone?”

Phil hummed and let his eyes slip closed, “I do. But that’s not why you’re here.”

_Damn. Damn him and his bullshit detector._ George stopped himself, it felt wrong to be cursing the dying, but he was sure what would come next would feel worse. “Fine. I’ve been thinking- thinking of, well…”

“Thinking of killing yourself?” There was no hesitancy in his voice, he just _knew._ The words were warm with reassurance without saying anything else. 

The prince cringed, but truthfully it was like falling into open arms, terrifying depending on the height, embarrassing, but safe. “I suppose,” he murmured. 

Phil began lecturing, but it was welcome, adding much-needed structure to his fuck up week. “You can’t kill someone you don’t even know, and you don’t know who you are, George. You’ve been searching for twenty four years and you’ve just now decided to give up.” He didn’t even sound disappointed, which George found infuriating. Here he was, sitting in a flat, on the bed of a cancer patient, while complaining that _he, a_ _prince_ , who lived in a _palace_ , wanted to take his own perfectly healthy life.

“I know who I am!” His attempt at defense was poor, and it came out mostly as a question rather than an exclamation.

Phil laughed, and the bones in his hand seemed to rattle. “Do you? What do you want to do when you finish your Masters? Where do you want to be in ten years? Who do you _love?”_

“I, um-” They were fair questions certainly, but when George went to answer he found no lines beneath them.

The sick man inhaled painfully and leaned onto his pillows. His faded blue eyes twinkled wisdom. “I’ll be dead in a week, George. I’ll be gone in a week but I’m okay spending my time sitting here and joking with you even though I’m withering away because _I know_ who I am, and the people who matter do too.” He closed his eyes again and familiar dimples brushed onto his gaunt cheeks. “When I’m gone there will be a me-shaped hole in the world and the people I love the most will try to fill it with the most beautiful things. They will point to the brightest stars and the fullest blossoms and the clearest skies, and those things I will become, escaping the void of nothingness; living through them, forever.” His face was decidedly tranquil as he continued, Do you think the same would happen if you were to die tomorrow? Would there be a you-shaped hole? _Think about it-”_ George scrambled for an answer, unwrapping his entangled mind from flowers and moonbeams. Luckily, Phil had only stopped for a breath, “Because if you’re stuck on the nothingness now, wait until it’s all you know - all you are. Wait until it’s consumed your soul to make room for the others more beautiful than you, but left your consciousness. Your time will be spent here and there, watching others live, noting their mistakes, cursing them for making the same ones as you, and you? You will say nothing, do nothing, _be nothing_ because you are cursed. Cursed without memory, without _love_. You will have lived and died as someone who never knew beauty.”

The prince whimpered, and hot tears fell on their clasped hands. Phil raised one to cup his cheek, and it was rough, calloused with work, against his young skin. “And _you,_ George, you have the greatest capacity for beauty, I’ve seen it; you could rearrange the stars if you pleased, you just need to learn how to want it again… Promise you’ll learn, _for me_ , that in eighty years time you’ll greet me as a mountain to my river.”

“How do I learn?” He whispered, his admission private between them.

“Sweetest prince,” he smiled, “that’s the easiest part. All you have to do is _live_ , live and love. Will you promise me that?” 

“Of course, Phil. I should like to see you as a river.” George nodded into his palm, the man’s eyelashes were fluttering with sleep and the prince needed him to know he would try. 

“And you a mountain.”

“Phil?” The room went very still.

“Yes?” His voice was muffled as though he was speaking from somewhere far away.

“Will you promise me something?” George squeezed his hand harder than he should’ve, desperate to transfer some of his own life into the dying man.

Phil’s chest gave one last heave, presumably in amusement, “That’s only fair."

“Will you fight it? The cancer? I don’t know if I’ll make it here without you.”

There was a long silence, and Phil’s hand fell softly from the prince’s cheek onto the thin sheets. 

_"George_ , I’ve already won. It may take my body but never my soul-”

_"Phil-”_ the prince’s voice broke for what felt like the millionth time that day.

He used all his strength to force his eyes open one last time, “If I don’t see you again, I love you, son.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok. I promise Alistair is going to get a bigger part sometime in the next few chapters (dead or alive? that's a secret i'll never tell,,,)
> 
> I'd like to give a big thank you to @jubilee_line who is another fantastic author on here! She gave me advice on this chapter, and is somehow managing to work her way through and edit my earlier chapters. She is just the sweetest, one of the most talented authors and has motivated me a ton this week :)  
> If you are in the mood for something a little more Christmassy than the mess you just read I'd definitely recommend _Blue Christmas_ by her!  
> Next chapter likely in 2 weeks bc I'm taking a break for the holidays and so I can write 2 chapters to be more timely in the future
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone! 
> 
> If you ever need to talk don't be afraid to reach out <3


	7. The Orchard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !tw this chapter contains disordered eating, suicidal ideation (less blatant than last chapter but it's still there), mentions of conversion therapy, and homophobia
> 
> George is sad, hungry, and confused. Clay is just confused. There couldn't be a worse time for a party so let's have one anyway! An old face shows up. George and Clay _finally_ talk about things, in an orchard, because why not? Also, what's up with Alastair?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I hope you've all had a happy new year! I was totally overwhelmed with all of the positive feedback I received on the last chapter. I'm so happy that so many people were able to take as much meaning from it as I intended. (very, very sorry if you cried) <3
> 
> Well, here is the next chapter and it is long. You know the feeling when you write a chapter that's like ~40% the size of your entire fic? well, now I do. I hope you enjoy it! It was a labor of love but I am actually quite proud :)
> 
> Things I Mention:  
> Chancel- place in a church where the choir sings  
> Psalter- book of psalms  
> Lead came- specifically, what holds stained glass windows together  
> Nosh- a snack (i wasn't going to include this but either i'm being gaslit or no one actually knows what it means)  
> Wisley- a real garden in the uk, very pretty according to google images amongst other resources who may have told me
> 
> Thank you, as always, for all of your lovely support and messages, I love talking to you. You keep me motivated <3

George exchanged numbers with Rebecca before leaving, and Phil was omniscient even in death - a week later he was gone. It was monumental in a way that no one noticed but George, just about as significant as a reporter smiling her way through the latest tragedy; nobody really cared if it hadn’t directly affected _them._ It was to each their own, a sadness only learned by experience. It was an awful trick of Fate, intellectuals craving what could destroy them. 

In the days since, George had become waxen, invisible wings growing to embrace his back. He supped on silent promises and _water,_ a crucial part of what had quickly become a mantra. _‘Live. Live. Live...’_ Surely it would be an easier task if he didn’t toss every day into the pitch of night.

It was only on the second day that Clay noticed he wasn’t eating, but he hesitated to intervene. He'd been practically exiled from the prince's room, and besides, the color was returning to his face, bruises fading; who was he to disrupt George's grief? The bodyguard could still feel the hand of his dead lover in his every once in a while - a missed meal here and there was hardly unreasonable. 

Everything had become acute: a sign, a message, a vow. The rivers ran for Phil - were Phil - forevermore, but to any fisherman, they were _only_ rivers, their lifeblood. The irony was cruel, it dragged George into his room, swamped him on his bed, and filled his lungs with icy misery, forcing the air out. He felt inundated, body and soul, and no one cared, but why would they? No one mourned for _George,_ only for the prince, and princely affairs certainly did not include the death of his proxy father. 

His mother, halfway across the ocean, called. Not to comfort him but to let him know she’d be home in another week, that she and the king would be touring India in order to cover up the fact that they’d rushed out of the country to I.D. a body that _wasn’t even Alastair’s._ It was gruesome, she told him: the corpse had been bloated with seawater. He hummed into the line at 6 a.m. as another day dawned without Phil. _It was much worse to see the body of a loved one at the brink._ He offered his condolences nonetheless and began his day when she finally hung up.

One of the perks of sobriety, he’d found, was that each morning he woke to birdsong, and the wings only grew, reminding him of his oath. _Live, live, live…_ The words marched through his head until they became soft with use, cerebral putty which he used to fasten more feathers. It became a daily ritual, prayerful and reverent, a silent delusion, but _his_ silent delusion, made with “sound” mind.

He was held together by intricate irrationality, the breath stolen by grief often came out in words, long winding rants to himself that were hot bile in his throat in the moment, and acidic burns through his esophagus the next day. Each thing he said, each memory vomited up, was defiled in the open air. The only place where moments could retain their sanctity was within himself. His body became a chapel, each bible containing only three words: _Live, live, live…_ it was nearly all that mattered. Tucked deep in his Chanceled mind was a Psalter filled with lines of verse to the simplest tune. It was not proud of its existence, pitiful pages barely allowing itself classification as a book.

The forbidden apology became antiphonic betwixt longing for Clay’s body against his and whispers of reassurance in his ear. Even in a draftless room, George was anguished, his own breath foul and taunting, drawing him from the deepest of sleep just to remind him of his utter isolation. 

Quite possibly, that was what hurt the most. Clay’s radio silence had translated into distance as well, only emptiness loomed behind him at his desk now rather than an oddly comforting, albeit annoying, blonde. Of course, it was obvious why the space was there. The harsh accusations of _"pool night"_ had clotted black on the terrace like blood, staining it once again. The prince avoided it at all costs. It was but a hellish altar that marked his foolishness, an arrogant commitment to short term bliss. _Live, live, live…_ all conflict blushed in the face of such truth. Perhaps he would dare approach the accursed balcony in another century, but he was sure he’d be unprepared if it was a moment sooner. 

Clay was the only thing he’d give up his wings for. It would be one guaranteed protection for the other. But, George feared the exposure of either would spell his end, damning him to eternal nothingness before he’d even managed to try his hand at living. _Live, live, live..._ It pumped his heart, filled his lungs - yet to the physical world it was nonexistent. Writing his truths too, he reasoned, committing them to paper - it would ruin them, rob them of their mythic purity. The terrible, terrible need to give everything meaning all at once was the lead came to his mosaic of things done and left undone. It took all his will and pious devotion to improvement, but he refused to poison sacred recourse via his wicked body. No, the promise to sobriety would surely be revealed in any apology to Clay and then he would fall, unwinged and alone, burning in the flames of spoken Truth. She was too fickle a mistress to grant him both luxuries, the cake was there, but not to be eaten.

That didn’t stop George from thinking about it, however; ceaselessly would be the right word. Behind closed doors, he willed Clay to sense his intentions from their shadowed corners, taste it in early morning coffee, hear it through silence itself. He spent many hours retired on top of the bedsheets if only to improve the “signal,” increase the chance that the bodyguard would receive his telepathic plea. Some nights, when the clarity between waking and dreaming blurred, the floral framework on the ceiling wilted before George’s eyes as he watered them with tears and apologies; petals cascading to his bed stamped a hundred times over, _'Return to sender.'_ Then, he’d awake choked on his own words, a little more waxy, divine wings wrapped tightly around him.

It was the thirteenth time he refused his plate that Clay asked how he felt. 

“Great,” George insisted, but it was a lie. The bodyguard nodded, noting how his pupils dilated in uncontrollable greed at the smell of bacon. Truthfully, the wings pulled at his back, and the hollow of his stomach had become so thin he felt in danger of snapping, the prince was ready to give up. Clay saw it too, how the light penetrated through his skin, through his blood, escaping through his back; sometimes he worried the translucent boy would evanesce if he blinked, and he longed to spindle a slice of pear, to tip a spoonful of honey into George’s mouth the way his mother had when he was too sick to eat. 

It would be a failure if he ate, a failure if he let Clay take care of him, George felt it in his bones. His skin had thinned, his hair, dulled, but it was his own fault for not entirely committing himself, for saving the godly power he’d been gifted only as a trade for a mere mortal. He would’ve let the other man rip each figurative feather from his back if Clay had thought them currency enough to tell him just how the _hell_ he’d made it through when his father had died.

He felt chosen, but selfish, still, that none of the many voices in his head was the _right one._ They chanted _Live, live, live…_ but all he cared to hear was his name on Clay’s lips. _That_ was living, or at least he assumed it was. But, his wings were beginning to unfurl, a sure sign that whatever he was doing was right, and _Gods don’t need to eat,_ he told himself. Clay barely spoke to him anymore and this _"Living"_ began to feel more and more like dying. Who was George to tell though? He’d never done either.

————————————

His parents arrived home in a string of suitcases and bags and trinkets that George was positive they hadn’t left with. They were spoils of their trip, surely, but he felt a twinge of guilt when he saw all the bright fabrics and carved figurines quickly disappear. Someone had dedicated their lives to making those, _living,_ only for the monarchy to toss them in a closet. It was yet another gnawing reminder of his own expendability, just how little value he held - even within his own family. When Alastair returned, _if_ Alastair returned, he too would be pushed to the bottom of a closet once again, no more than an afterthought. If he were ever to truly _live,_ it would be nearly impossible from inside these spoiled walls.

A few hours later, George plunked absentmindedly at his keyboard and stared, annoyed, at his monitor. As lunch approached he staved off the hunger with “productivity.” It was a useless ploy, his head ached so much he couldn’t see straight, his fingers shook from weakness, and his mood was in the gutter. His mouth was so goddamned dry as well, that he considered getting a glass from the kitchen, but decided against it, worried the impulse to eat would be too strong. He _almost_ asked Clay to get him one but swore that off too; each day the bodyguard looked at him more dolefully, stood a little further back. _It’s for the best,_ he thought, _living_ no longer struck him as a two-party affair. Rather, he found himself standing on the edge of a cliff preparing to spread his wings. _Like an Albatross;_ he envied their lives, gliding months on end above the tumult, landing only once or twice a year. It was simple. It was graceful. It was _living._ It was all he wanted.

He accepted the invitation to his mother’s office with only a nod when the assistant came to fetch him. It had been a matter of time, and he supposed it was better to meet her earlier in the day when his head was the clearest. He rose, a ticking clock each morning, counting down the seconds until human instinct took over; he was never starving but craved the ritual of food; never tired but expired when his dwindling energy ran out; never emotional but always moments away from breaking. George hated how weak his body was, he had the wings, he was _more._ But his human form hadn’t quite caught up to the developing god complex and alas, his stomach begged for food, his eyes remained permanently half shut, and his mind - well, his mind screamed for a drop of liquor, a single bar of Xanax, like a baby for a bottle.

Helena leaned cross-legged against the front of her desk while the king sat commandingly in an overstuffed chair in the center of the office. George approached them warily, taking care to move slowly enough that his jumper wouldn’t reveal just how much weight he’d lost. It was strange to be in a room with people who weren’t Clay - stranger still that the bodyguard had been confined to the hallway. It was protocol, of course, the family was allowed their private moments, but the fact that there was a family moment to be had in the first place? It was safe to say it was _unusual,_ at the least. The queen smiled cheerily at her husband, and, although travel-weary, she looked as put together as ever. The king, on the other hand, was pudgy and haggard, a sweat already breaking, or perhaps there preemptively at George’s arrival. 

“Christ, George. You are positively gaunt!” She beckoned him closer, and the prince conceded reluctantly.

He tried to shake her off as she took a hand to his jaw, tipping his head back to inspect the damage, “Thanks Mum, and how was the trip?”

She frowned and shot a worried glance at the king, who was too preoccupied with a spot on his blazer to notice, but said nothing more about George’s state. “Oh, you know, it was lovely of course. A bit strange traveling under the conditions, but quite enjoyable overall.”

The spot, as it turned out, was proving harder to identify than a simple crumb or thread, and the two looked on in quiet horror as the king raised a finger to his mouth to determine the offending stain. He gritted his teeth and pitched in sharply, “Warm. It was _very_ warm.”

Helena shook her head and turned her focus to George, who’d taken the king’s discomfiting behavior as an opportunity to scurry away from his meddling mother. She stepped toward him but respected the space he had taken, “Ignore him, you know how he hates traveling-” _I think it’s just me he hates,_ George added internally, “-we were in better spirits after realizing the body wasn’t Alastair’s…They say they’re really close to finding him, you know.” 

He nodded to her and forced a tight-lipped smile. Truthfully, it had already been ages, and the likelihood of finding him, less and less. Still, for all the guff his mother gave him, he wouldn’t be the one to give it back, not on this. The king was- not so eloquent. “They _said_ not to get your hopes up, _darling._ ” He grumbled and the corner of her mouth drooped slightly before recovering in a way George knew was a learned maneuver. 

“James, stop.” She motioned her arms in jest confusion. “What is there if not hope?” She leaned toward him and cajoled in a light tone, “Why, if I stopped hoping I do believe this entire country would fall apart.”

The lilting edge at the end caught the king’s attention, he raised his gaze lazily and stretched his arms out over the chair’s arms. “Yes, darling, of course.”

Satisfied, she turned back to her son, “Well, in that case, George, I wanted to let you know we will still be hosting your father’s birthday party, even in Alastair’s absence.”

“Oh,” he’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t as if he was in the business of buying his beloved father a gift every year, and honestly, he had lost track of the date days ago. “Is that on Wednesday night?”

“No dear, Thursday, don’t tell me you’d forgotten…” she flipped open her planner and tapped at the date as if her own calendric knowledge should’ve been obvious to him. Well really it _should’ve,_ but the only thing that he could recall from past years was the increasing pertinence of going abroad around this time. His mother snapped gently in front of his face and raised an eyebrow, “It’s _especially_ important you’re ‘on’ then too. The press knows your brother is missing but there’s no need to panic anyone if you can help it.” 

“Helena, he’s 24, the boy better be able to manage a party.” The king looked appalled at her babying but his tone said more than he did. 

George noted her flinch and some of his diffidence dissipated, it was one thing how his father treated him, but he despised how condescending he could be with his mother. “Well, I was just-” she shrugged it off and continued, “George, you’ll be fine, won’t you?”

From across the room James glared at him, and George felt like prey about to be pounced on. It really could _never_ be so simple, could it? The prince scratched at the back of his neck in anxiety, “Shit, Mum, I’m sorry but that’s Phil’s funeral. I need to go, be there with his daughter.” It was a valid excuse, surely, but he still threw in Rebecca as insurance hoping his father would find some sympathy for paternal mourning. 

The queen’s hand flew to her mouth, but the king remained just as irritated. “Darling,” she gushed, “I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t mention it sooner, I heard about that but-”

“George,” her husband interrupted and for a moment the queen seemed hopeful, perhaps he was about to impart some fatherly wisdom, even some sort of condolences at the least, but it was in vain. “That was a rhetorical question,” he rose from the chair, “You’re going to the party.” 

Hot red rage flourished under the prince’s skin and he felt a phantom rustling at his back, he turned to face his father, “I’m not going! You have plenty of birthdays left, Phil has none. That’s _far more_ significant.” The words were forceful with all the power of his grief. He couldn’t tell Clay how he felt without repercussion, but he _sure as hell_ wouldn’t be holding anything back for his father’s sake.

The queen came between them, ever the diplomat, “You have to understand my heart goes out to his family, _it really does,_ but-”

“What even _was_ he to you?!” The king snarled, “I’ll be damned if you go to some _ex-staff member’s funeral_ over an official palace event.”

George’s eyes bulged at the indifference, _"What was he to me?"_ He shouted, “Are you serious?!”

His mother shook her head and glowered at James who, quite frankly, did not seem interested in resuming his weak charade of support, “Well I _know_ he was your bodyguard and he’d been with you a long time-” She tried to compromise, which only made the prince angrier.

“He was _more_ than that- he was my _father!_ _He raised me."_ The room came to an immediate standstill and George felt like he’d finally made it to the cliff he was meant to depart from. He peered over the edge.

“What?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” 

His parents burst out at the same time, and suddenly he felt deserted. His mother looked scandalized to a point of no return, unnerved that she’d defended George only for him to say _that._ When he didn’t respond to their questioning gazes an uncomfortable silence settled between them. 

The king was the first to speak, and his chest puffed where the queen deflated defeatedly. “You’re a _disgrace_ to the very blood in your veins,” he spat, “to our _entire lineage._ I won’t listen to you call some _commoner_ your father.” He crossed the room and came to a stop before George, towering over him in an attempt at intimidation. 

He lowered his eyes in shame but not because of his father, Helena had practically whimpered, “George, how could you say something so hurtful…” The pitiful surprise was obvious in her voice, and the prince considered the price of this newfound confidence. It was certainly proving to be more dear a cost than he’d previously thought. His mother knew little of the poor state of George and James’ relationship - pretending was just easier for all parties, and more opportune for the king - no one assumes you’ve been hit by your loving father. 

A brash idea sprung into his head, and though it would end painfully for him, an invisible force pushed him to do it, pushed him on the offensive, “Me? _Me?_ Mother, you have _no idea_ how he treats me, the things he’s said. Phil was more of a father than _he_ will _ever be._ ” The king harrumphed, and his hand twitched until he drew it into a staving fist, clearly considering the repercussions physical violence right then and there would bring. _Good,_ he silently dared him, _prove me right. Prove me right in front of your wife._

The queen rubbed her brow with two fingers and studied them both before seemingly reaching a conclusion, she met George’s gaze, “I understand you’re upset but there’s no need to _lie._ I can’t believe you’d be so disrespectful to- to imply that he doesn’t love you!” Her voice raised in alarm, and she moved to address her husband, “James, tell him you love him so he can understand how foolish he’s being - I simply won’t have this!”

The king was utterly caught off guard and his lips sealed even further shut as a result, not that it mattered. He had no desire to confess what wasn’t there. As the silence continued, George watched his parents silently battle in a series of angry glances until his mother finally took back over, “My God, you’re both so stubborn; George, _of course_ he loves you!” She huffed, clearly unprepared for the childish display unfolding before her, “I’m just- this is just- Alastair would never!” 

It was a low blow, but they were all at their breaking points. If it wasn’t jet lag and precursory grief, then it was seemingly unrequited apologies and starvation for no good reason. They were twangy strings, all of them, a fugue where each melody disagreed, yet they were still plucked over and over again in search of the tune that would fit. George’s was the loudest, vibrating in indignation, a flying contention between the treble and the bass line. One second it was implied his brother was dead - the next he was sidled up beside him. If the solution wasn’t so terrible, the prince sometimes wished he could live without him. He wished to be free. “Yes, well Alastair isn’t here, Mother” he snapped, “Or have you forgotten why you’re groveling to get me to attend a party I haven’t gone to _once_ in the past five years.”

She was speechless, a stuttering mess behind the king. George looked to his mother but could feel the wrathful tempest that had become his father swelling next to him. It was surprising to see the woman who told him off so frequently at a loss for words. Her shoulders drooped in a way that was bizarrely human, and, what was that? Tears? She swiped a hand to catch the first one, taking the powder on her cheek with it.

James glanced at her, _"Now_ look what you’ve done-” her breathing had become noisy, riled with emotion and he rolled his eyes, “leave, Helena-”

In an act that took George completely by surprise, his mother shoved past the king and opened her arms to him, inviting a hug. Her hands blurred in his periphery in a way that was far too familiar and he winced inadvertently. _Damn,_ he watched the queen’s face fall from confusion into pained acceptance. Instead, she reached for his hand and patted it lovingly, he cursed himself once again when he felt the wetness on his palm that could only be her tears. Leaning in carefully, she spoke barely above a whisper: “Please George, for me?” It was the first question she’d asked in a long time that felt genuinely elective. The queen departed from the office with her day planner and a couple of sniffles and then… the prince was alone… alone with the _king._

——————————

There was definitely an appropriate minimum distance between the door and himself that Clay should have been observing in the hallway outside the office, but what did it matter? Anyone who was puissant enough to fire him over it was on the other side of that door anyway... that was - until they weren’t. It was less a door and more a blockade anyhow, he could barely hear through it, and any scrap of the conversation that did make it was muffled and mangled to oblivion - so he certainly didn’t hear the queen approaching, turning the handle, pulling it open- 

Clay froze as she walked past him, his ear was unquestionably close to the door, and his stature hysterically revealing, but she failed to notice. As it was carelessly flung shut behind her, he managed to catch a sliver of two figures standing dangerously close to each other and his stomach _dropped._ Also unnerving were Helena’s misty eyes, _the king doesn’t- her? Both of them?_ He appeared at her side like a lost puppy and she nodded hesitantly, allowing him to speak first. “Are you alright?”

“Oh fine, fine,” she wiped her eyes again with a smile that was very obviously forced, though the tears showed no sign of relenting, “We’re exhausted, that’s all, there’s a lot going on... there _always_ is.” In this state she reminded the bodyguard a lot of George, and he almost took the opportunity to pry further, perhaps gather some insight, before he remembered what could very well be unfolding inside the room as they spoke.

“He’s in there - _alone?”_ Clay still wasn’t sure how far the abuse went, who it affected, but the woman before him seemed unmarked from the King’s hand, at least, the deepening crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes and perpetual frown lines were the marks of a testament of another sort. The question was off-topic and easily interpretable by anyone who was in the right frame of mind but luckily enough - or unluckily enough - she wasn’t, and the queen answered without a second thought.

“With his father, but yes. There’s really no need to go in, the room is perfectly safe.” She’d misunderstood. Clay would’ve been relieved if it was the fucking _room_ he cared about. The pair reached an intersection of hallways and the queen continued on without him, seemingly unconcerned with their conversation. He turned and nearly broke into a sprint back to the office, considering resuming his position at the door, but quickly coming to the realization that George could be the next to open it, and so deciding against it. What the hell would he say _then?_ He settled on pacing tight squares around the alcove and only prayed to God that nothing significant would happen inside without him hearing it first.

————————————

The king sneered, peering down at the prince with beady eyes. “It’s just _mess_ after _mess_ with you, isn’t it?”

George maintained a harshly telling silence and flicked his gaze up to meet his father’s. The confidence was getting to him - he’d never intended to make his mother cry, but some sick part of him _liked_ it. It _proved_ something. What? He wasn’t quite sure, but it only fed his ego further. 

His father leered over him and his complexion tinged red, “I don’t know where the hell you get off talking to your mother - the _queen -_ like that, but I’m telling you, it stops _right fucking now._ You will be at that damned party if you want to be able to see when you wake up tomorrow.” _A threat… interesting._

George only smiled virtuously and tipped his chin up in a decided victory, “You won’t hit me. There’ll be press at the party and - _she’d notice."_ A soon as he’d said it, he knew that it had been a mistake. The king grabbed his wrist and wielded it up by his face.

“You think you’re _so smart?”_ He hissed, “You ‘fell down a flight of stairs’ last month, no one would think _anything_ of it if it happened again - if you ‘landed on your hand wrong’…” He smirked victoriously - he’d won. Well, he’d won against George of two weeks ago, won against a drug-addled mess, a boy without a will to live. What he hadn’t accounted for was _this_ George. The boy with wings, the boy willing to give up _everything_ just to _Live… live… live…_

The prince laughed at the crushing grip that encircled his wrist, “I thought you _loved_ me,” he taunted. He _joked._ His father only squeezed harder, stopping when the bones nearly bent.

 _"Don’t."_

George had gotten under his skin and it was _lovely._ It was at the risk of his hand but he’d sacrifice it if it meant making his father feel as small as he’d made him. “That’s what she _said-"_ he mocked, taking care to peer directly into his eyes, _“‘Of course_ you do.’”

“Let her believe what she wants. You wouldn’t-” His voice was low as if Helena could still hear them, and the prince bit back another grin at the not-so-subtle panic that inflected his words.

“Yes, but you _do,_ don’t you?” He laced it with faux innocence, spoke it loudly, carelessly, just to see his father cringe, “Why else would I come to your birthday party, if you loved me _so much more_ than Phil did?” 

That was the final straw, the king’s eyes darkened and he jerked George forward, increasing the pressure of his hold by at least three-fold. “Of _course_ I _don’t-"_ He spat, “no one will _ever_ love you for anything beyond your status - or have you forgotten what you are?” 

The prince had unintentionally yelped in pain, and stumbled forward, honestly surprised when his wings didn’t catch him. They existed only in his mind, yes, but the power they’d given him was incredibly real, and misleading _apparently._ His confidence began ebbing out, replaced by regret, and he once again sent silent pleas to Clay - this time for rescue.

He’d heard him, thank God, at the same moment he’d decided that staying in the hallway just wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. Not with plausible evidence, not with a _monster_ who hit his son, not with the way he felt for George… _wait what? What was that last one?_ No matter, there was no time to think about it. Clay burst through the door and two pairs of eyes were instantly glued to him, one pair noticeably more grateful than the other. He was going to _murder_ the king, it was all too clear what was going on - what _had been_ going on. It made him sick to his stomach. Knowing that George’s hands had once been in his made it that much worse, he wanted to hold them forever, whisper a thousand promises into the lines of his palms that no one would _ever_ touch him like that again. 

Yes, it was unmistakable what was transpiring, but as strongly as Clay felt he knew it was better to concede to his training, safer for his prince, “George, you have that… _thing_ to do - Is everything okay in here?”

Relief flooded across the shorter’s face before he grimaced again as his father turned to face Clay, wrist in tow, “Who the hell are _you_ to be bursting in here, asking questions like that?!” It was a fair inquiry despite the situation, the king hadn’t been around long enough to meet him.

George sighed tiredly, doing his best to hold in another anguished whine, “Don’t, father. That’s Clay, he’s that new head of security that mother hired.”

“Well, _Clay,"_ the king snapped, “everything is _fine_ here.” He dropped the prince’s wrist and it took all the bodyguard had in him not to run over and forcefully separate the two. “And _what_ is it exactly my son has to do?” He asked, clearly still skeptical of him. 

In a brief collision of universes, the stars aligned just long enough for the two to muster the same answer: “Test!” They sputtered, although on both ends it sounded more like a query than a statement.

 _"Fine."_ The king crossed his arms, and he was still suspicious, but prying would’ve raised more questions than not and he, frankly, did not care to be around his pathetic son any longer than absolutely necessary. 

Clay beckoned for George to leave, waiting until he was in front of him, entirely walled off from the king, before he followed. The prince had just made it out the door, sucking air between his clenched teeth as he opened it due to the pain from his aching wrist when James addressed the bodyguard once more.

“Next time,” he announced haughtily, “you address me as _Your Majesty,_ do try and remember that _Clay."_

The idea was vomitous, but a short order if it meant he could get a look at George’s wrist more quickly. He smiled artificially, “Yes, _next time,”_ and shut the door rather forcefully behind them.

————————————

George had almost escaped down the hallway when Clay caught up to him, cutting him off. His pleading eyes said all he needed to and he extended an open palm, hesitant to hurt his wrist anymore. The prince nearly refused but the urge for Clay’s comforting touch overtook him and he shoved his arm forcefully at him, sharply inhaling. 

“Thank you,” the bodyguard sounded grateful enough that it made George feel guilty for how he’d snubbed him over the past week.

He nodded, fearful that speaking would mean confession, and let Clay trace the bones in his hand with gentle care. The examination felt - _extensive,_ and far too intimate to be conducted in a hallway but the prince stifled the warmth that bloomed under his skin and implored him to finish up despite the blush on his cheeks. “I think that’s fine, it’s not bad, _really."_

Clay prodded a particularly tender area and his head jerked up in surprise when George didn’t react. “Are you sure?” The prince inclined his head in reassurance and began pulling away. Out of sheer curiosity, Clay told himself, and _definitely not_ for the sake of prolonging the closest interaction the two had had in a week, he frowned, asking, “Wait, just show me you can bend your fingers?” He ignored the lazily targeted eye roll and watched each finger bend with surgical precision, _even_ the thumb, it was stiff, but curved nonetheless, and Clay’s suspicions only grew. Before he’d broken up the fight, he’d seen the thumb, specifically, angled in the king’s grip in such a way that would have guaranteed hyperextension, if not fracture. But the prince in front of him showed no signs of distress, discomfort, or frankly, awareness of what had just unfolded. It was almost as reminiscent of- _no,_ he _really_ didn’t want to believe it-

“Is that good?” George tilted his head and questioned him vacantly, “I bent my fingers - is that good?” 

“Yes…” Clay responded a few seconds too late, regarding him in confusion. The prince snatched his hand away and walked down the hall, swaying as he went. He was _starving,_ more than he’d ever been the entire time his parents had been away, but then again, they _did_ have that draining effect. He sauntered away from Clay, slowly, resisting the need to steady himself with a hand against the wall until he’d rounded the corner. As his vision blurred, the aching pain of the near-constant malnourishment headache was finally joined by that of his abused wrist. It hadn’t hurt badly in the office and not at all during Clay’s inspection; he’d been fueled by an egotistic adrenaline rush that was but a distant memory now. It was nearly noon, but suddenly everything was going dark, and George prayed he’d make it back to his room before he passed out.

The bodyguard stared down the hall and chewed at his cheek in agitation. How the hell had George just been ‘fine;’ It made no sense. Even if the injury hadn’t been particularly nasty - and it certainly looked like it _had -_ Clay couldn’t believe that the prince had let him off the hook so easily. He’d broken one of only a few spoken promises between them, the most significant one if he really wanted to be hard on himself. _‘I won’t let him lay another hand on you.’_ He’d whispered it to George as he slept, completely trusting, in his lap. The words felt childish and impudent now, and Clay cursed himself for letting the prince down _yet again._

It was the silence of his misery that marked his concern. His reliable stoicism hummed low, unaccompanied by the usual symphony of tears and anger that were George’s harmonies. _Fine… he said it himself, he was fine. But he hadn’t! Couldn’t have been._ He wasn’t a doctor by any means, but several tours of military experience left him with extensive knowledge of what did and didn’t hurt. And _that?_ There was only one explanation why his prince had become some unresponsive, glassy-eyed robot - he was using again. It was as equally surprising as it was not; the day after Phil died Clay had walked past George’s perpetually closed door to find a cardboard box packed up with half-empty bottles and a note written on the side, ‘for the bin.’ Also included had been several baggies of various narcotics, a lighter, and a crumpled tissue - the latter, he assumed, was only the excuse to begin cleaning up in the first place, but he didn’t mention it, _any_ of it, and disposed of the box quietly. 

But now? He wasn’t so sure, _he must’ve kept some - just in case._ Clay knew all too well about ‘just in case,’ his own father had been the sovereign of it. He’d watched him _almost_ kick the habit a hundred times over up until the very last day of his life. ‘Just in case’ meant using, and using meant lying. Something twisted in his gut - the same prince who’d fought him on the terrace in the midst of a hail storm for “lying” a week earlier thought he could get away with a deception _far_ greater. The remaining warmth Clay had felt between them dissipated, replaced by an emotion unfamiliar in the context of George… He was _angry._

——————————

It was eight at night and George was pulling on a cable knit sweater rather than the obligatory suit. He wasn’t in a mood to celebrate, _certainly_ not when it was for his father, but the outfit also provided much-needed warmth. It was the seventh day of forcing down nothing but water, and his bones cut at the inside of his skin since the little fat he had dropped from his frame just to keep his body alive. The lack of adipose, as it turned out, meant he was freezing. _Constantly._ The sweater was not much better than a suit, he reckoned, but it would’ve felt wrong to dress up for anything but Phil’s funeral. 

Phil’s funeral: he caught his gaze in the mirror, the dark circles set deep under his eyes, and shook his head for the fifth time that day. _He wouldn’t cry over it anymore,_ he told himself, also for the fifth time. Rebecca had texted - not even _called_ \- to let George know that the funeral’s date had been moved. It would’ve been fine, of course, he’d promised his presence, and his busy schedule of living himself to death could be easily worked around. But not even the prince could buy back lost time; Rebecca’s news was fresh heartbreak, a salted wound - the funeral had gone on without him. She’d apologized, but it was an irreversible devastation. George wept into his mother’s arms, much to Clay’s fervently denied jealousy, and the family sent flowers, though he still couldn’t help but feel snubbed. It might’ve been because, up until a week ago, the prince knew nothing of Rebecca’s existence, but he wasn’t quite set on that answer. It was strange - moving a funeral so abruptly - but Phil had proved to be in death just what he was in life - mysterious.

George wandered into the ballroom long after when would have been appropriate, but he’d only promised his presence, not his etiquette. Everything was excessively bright, loud too, but spending as much time in one’s room as he did will often lead to certain aversions. It was tiring from the moment he set foot inside, and, regrettably, he’d have to keep walking until he was deep enough in the crowd that the less notable guests - usually plus ones - would lose interest, or get scared off by some politician who, frankly, would make better conversation than him. George yawned and felt the heat of his mother’s glare on him at once, she was across the room, but sharp as a hawk, and the once-over she gave him confirmed what he already knew, the outfit was _less_ than acceptable. _Whatever,_ the heavy garment felt like the beginning of a hug, and the prince tried to focus on that rather than the sights, and sounds, and lovely _smells_ of the party.

He was going to have to eat at some point, both George and Clay were thinking it. Servers carried trays of appetizers and champagne, neither of which particularly interested him - or so he told himself. Champagne started leaving a bitter taste in his mouth right around the year he’d turned thirteen. It was also celebratory, which, as anyone could see by the discomfort painted across his face, he was clearly not. A small voice echoed from the corner of his mind, urging him to slip into the kitchen, sneak a bottle - _only one_ bottle - and curl up in his room, ride out the night in a boozy stupor and buzzing endorphins. The significance of his sobriety held him back, but that wasn’t nearly as poignant as the _smells_ were. The mere scent of butter and garlic and cheese had him doubled over, genuinely hungry for the first time in a week. In a matter of minutes he’d gone from _just a look_ to _just a smell_ to _well, how bad would a taste really be?_ That settled it, he was going to have one - _one_ \- appetizer, _only one! A nosh, if you will._

It was a strange thing, walking among a crowd, unseen. It was a simple privilege to have a face without value, and George reveled in the civilian feeling of bumping shoulders with other partygoers as he jostled between them. Some raised an annoyed brow, but most said nothing at all, completely engulfed in their own experience. He longed for that, to dance with strangers, and chat louder as the music crescendoed, or even just pluck a tart from a tray without being scrutinized - without scrutinizing _himself._ Everyone looked so carefree, entirely taken in the majesty of the room; George only felt trapped. Gilded arches reached for the ceiling, capturing painted heaven with industrial restraints. Each patterned square seemed an additional slat in the bars of a cage, slight enough to trap his phantasmic wings. 

He’d made it. Waltzing through the mob with surprising ease, George had arrived at a table overflowing with food. He’d had to seek a stationary source because all the servers were moving too quickly to catch. It didn’t make sense to him either. Everyone else needed only raise a hand and a silver platter was at their beck and call, but when the prince approached he could never reach them, like running in a dream. The buffet was piled with all of the king’s favorites, and he rued the fact that the first thing to satiate him would have any association, but George was like a cartoon character, eyes impossibly wide with hunger, the aroma wafting under his nose. Life became increasingly technicolor in relation to proximity to the table, even in spite of his colorblindness.

He inspected the skewers of olives and cheese several times over, as if some unseen poison lay inside. For all he knew, it did. One simply doesn’t scorn food for an entire week without finding some small meaning in the first delicacy that will pass their lips. The roasted peppers adorned with sprigs of basil could very well be what destroyed him, given unto the earth by God to dethrone Another. But damn him to hell if he wasn’t considering it. The prince had yet to feel the ascension he was promised, _Live, live, live_. It mocked him, and suddenly the laughter and tumult of the room became overpowering. _Live, live, live._ But the wings were there! _Live._ He’d seen them. _Live._ Hadn’t he? _Live._ Hunger was all he knew; grief and hoarded apologies replaced the acid in his stomach. George turned, searching wildly for Clay, desperate to confess his hideous error to the one person he hoped would care. He turned, and there was _Alex._

He was the sun, _damn him,_ he was the sun. George felt his skin melt away like paraffin, felt the wax adhering the feathers turn to liquid, the feathers singe and burn, golden threads, then nothingness. And he was plunging, falling, circling the drain, an Albatross eaten alive on its own island the second it returned home. Cruel life, cruel death, both bound by nature to one nest, no matter if it was overrun by rats. They would sit on their thrones until their last breaths, until the last bit of their flesh was picked from their bones. But, Alex was no rat, and George no bird. It was personal, it was politics, it was _life._ That didn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt, seeing your life loop before your eyes, realizing nothing has changed twelve years later. If _Live, live, live_ was a triangle, he was at the hypotenuse, forced to descend, plummet, by all things logic and reason - by the rules.

 _The rules._ Something familiar, something he could break, _had_ broken a thousand times before - an escape clause of sorts, perhaps it wasn’t obvious to him, the irony, the _loop._

Loop be _damned_ \- it wouldn’t exist if he didn’t.

\---------------------------

Clay was pissed beyond plausible deniability. For someone who he’d been surprised made it _into_ the ballroom, George was now moving _out, very quickly._ He wasn’t even going toward his room; the bodyguard cursed him, trying not to trample any of the guests as he followed suit.

Alright, _where the fuck is he?_ The hallway was completely vacant, aside from a few ambling staff members who all shrugged when he asked them if they’d seen the prince. “Isn’t Alastair… missing?” One of them even asked, _oh my god;_ The panic he felt was unsettling, George’s behavior was evocative of his father’s before he fell off the face of the earth, resurfacing a week or three later, bruised and babbling off a fresh bender. He had to find George - _now._

Just when Clay began questioning if the prince ever existed in the first place he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was George’s chauffeur.

_Hey, I thought I was off tonight. Where the hell is HRH going in the middle of the party anyway?_

Clay allowed himself a sigh of relief before the anxiety swept him back up.

 _Do not leave._ He responded, scrunching his nose in anger as his stupid fingers fumbled on the tiny screen. 

_Don’t go anywhere._ Unbeknownst to Clay, it was the first subliminal message he’d sent in reply to the bombardment he’d received from George. He prayed in tandem to the prince every night of the past week, _please, let him hear that._

The courtyard was chilly enough that the car’s exhaust was visible in the air, George was bent over the passenger side window, presumably speaking to the chauffeur. When he saw Clay he straightened himself out, denying the intimidating height difference between them, but froze completely, caught like a deer in headlights. 

Clay was still advancing on the car when he began speaking. Yelling, actually. The party meant a convenient lack of staff or nobles with wandering ears, and that was a good thing. The bodyguard couldn’t have held back his anger if he tried. “Where the _fuck_ do you think you’re going?!”

George’s eyes met his, begging for the type of perception that had let him down all week, _please, let it work now._ He backed up slightly so Clay could see his hands, show that he wasn’t fleeing from _him_ \- _yet. “_ I’m so- I’m sorry I need to get out of here,” his voice was shaky.

 _"Why?_ What’s going on?” He’d asked it only to humor the prince, confident he was running _to_ something rather than from it. 

“I just- please trust me, I _need_ to go.” George had brought his hands up in desperate innocence, but it seemed more to Clay that he was gesturing him to stop - stop approaching, stop asking questions, stop _caring._

 _"Seriously?"_ He humored him, halting suddenly and seething at him over the roof of the car, he was so ready to tear into him but the prince interrupted him, blathering anxiously.

“It- it could be fun, kind of like swimming the other night, you know?” George had resorted to anything, _anything_ that he thought might resonate with the bodyguard. He’d been _so_ adamant for fun, for _pool night,_ and now the prince played on that weakness, nothing but an inconvenient filler level between him and the final boss.

“No-” he replied simply circling round to the other side of the car, “you already have plans tonight, and frankly, I’m done, George. There’s not _one good reason_ to let you run off into the night.” He curled a hand over the curve of the car, holding the door, the escape hatch, shut. 

“You… you don’t trust me?” George looked at him with puppy dog eyes, pitiful. Clay was proving harder to convince than he’d initially thought, and time was ticking, for what? He wasn’t quite sure, but it _was_ ticking. His dignity wasn’t a concern, it was ash on the wind, gone with his wings. An illusion, a _delusion_ \- he had yet to stop falling.

“Isn’t it _obvious?"_ Clay snapped, dealing out whiplash of the soul. He was still entirely unconvinced of George’s sobriety; the shorter was uneasy on his feet, zoning out mid-conversation.

That was certainly news to the prince, with all the apologies he’d crafted, he’d never thought of _Clay_ as a variable. It sounded stupid now, of course, he would be, but in all of his scenarios, the bodyguard had drawn him into his arms, pardoned him for his behavior, citing reasons he wouldn’t even know because George had been mute the whole week. The prince was helpless as fact’s robes burned away to fiction. “But- you said you _liked_ me, you- you said we were _friends.”_ All the time he’d considered him, Clay had been considering him _too, learning him, hating him_ \- still, he fell, deeper into his mind.

“I said I was _trying_ to be your friend. But, right now? You’re _using me,_ George. Friendship isn’t even on the table.” He spoke directly, sternly enough to make the prince release the door handle.

“Why did we go swimming then?” He stepped back; running away was a less attractive option if things didn’t stay exactly the same for when he came back - _if_ he came back. Still, if he was leaving for good, George wanted to be sure he knew exactly what terms he’d be going out on. 

_"Jesus,_ are you really going to make me say it?” He knew he’d been building up to it, but no matter the way he arranged them in his head, they were harsh, they were too much, they were partially the truth, they were not enough… “It’s my job to keep you _alive,”_ He exhaled it all in one breath, “and the way things were going… It was work, simple as that.” Implications hung heavy in the air, collecting enough tension that they nearly gleamed in the moonlight.

“Of course,” _Of-fucking-course,_ “Fine. I’ll go back inside.”

Clay nodded gravely and removed his hand from the door. George stood, frozen, falling, melting, dying, _alone._ That was what mattered. He was alone - and _stupid, so, incredibly stupid_ to even humor the thought that Clay had _ever_ cared about him. He’d made it clear since the beginning, the very first night, the very first fuck up - it was only his _job._ He never had Clay, he’d never have Nick... and Alex? His gentle lips concealed a forked tongue, sharp fangs, poisonous words. _'George kissed me first, he did. I told him to stop, something’s_ wrong _with him.’_ Alex was his father’s malign, spite, vindictive hatred in a handsome package, he saw it only after the fireworks stopped popping, blinding him like a flashbulb, one must never forget that heaven’s most beautiful is Satan.

He couldn’t go back. He wouldn’t. In one fell swoop, he lunged for the car’s door, locking himself inside as Clay turned to go back inside. He motioned to the oblivious chauffeur and he shifted into drive. 

Clay relentlessly pounded his fist, on the roof of the car, so hard that he shook something inside him. _Why the hell is he so adamant on leaving?_ His mind filled in the blank, the obvious answer - he was after some vice - but the pain in his eyes, it seemed _more personal,_ somehow, than past addiction. That didn’t change the fact that he was fucking mad. 

“Do you really think I’m going to let you get away again?” He slid into the back seat as George cowered, pressed flush against the furthest side of the car. 

_"Please,_ Clay, just come with me, it will be _fun."_ George was to the point of delirious laughter, and his chest was heaving with crazed excitement, or a panic attack, or both. He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, it wasn’t like he wanted the bodyguard to go with him, _or did he,_ he just needed to leave, complete the fall until he hit smack dab bottom. 

“Stop it! Stop feeding me that bullshit - I’m not _stupid!"_ Clay’s jaw was clenched and his hand folded into a fist that was grinding into the seat. “You’re lying to me like I didn’t watch you fall down a flight of stairs, as if you’ve even stepped a _centimeter_ out of your room in a week, like- like _I_ wouldn’t know the signs!” He spat, _“My dad_ was an addict, George, I fucking know what’s going on.”

“You never told me that… about your father.” George had assumed only the worst of himself, but to see Clay so… _broken._ It made him a person again, not a character, not a variable, not a piece coming for check. He cared so much it wrecked him, made him angry; terrifying because he was terrified. 

George’s genuine interest threw him, he seemed to snap between himself and something else, something darker, hungrier. He sniffed, unexpected emotion arising, a lump in his throat making his voice soft, cracked, “Maybe I would’ve if you’d ever asked.”

He was no more alive than two weeks ago, no smarter either. Phil’s true message echoed from Clay’s mouth, and George knew he had to confess, it was no longer enough to admit it to himself. He’d monopolized the apologies, taken advantage of their intimacy, their tenderness - he had been so, _so_ selfish. 

“I know… I know I haven’t said much lately,” it was barely more than a whisper, his eyes looking everywhere but up.

“You _actively_ avoid me.” His tone was lighter but still accusing. It was better, though, he was finally talking to George, _his_ George. 

“I _know,_ I thought it was the right thing to do…” It was the truth, as much of it as he was willing to give right then.

“ _Fuck,_ George,” Clay exhaled with exasperated humor, “I know I haven’t known you long enough to judge, but when have you _ever_ made a good decision on your own?”

“I-” He searched for healing words, repentant words, words that would fix his past, words that would let him _live._ They’d only been there the whole time. _Please, please this time, let it work._

“I’m sorry.” And it was so completely true, so entirely for _him_ that Clay was across the seat in a second, wrapping him into a hug safer than those damned wings ever were.

“Hey,” George tucked his face into the crook of Clay’s neck and hummed, softly, wetly, into his collar. “I know…” he rubbed his back in small circles, “I know the past few weeks have been hell for you, it’s alright, _really."_ He brushed his lips against the prince’s temple, _he couldn’t help it,_ to get his attention, “Let’s just go back inside for now, we can talk more in the morning.”

The smaller stiffened in his arms and pushed weakly at his chest, “No, you don’t understand, I _really can’t."_

The bodyguard frowned at the all too familiar defeat which clouded his prince’s face. “Tell me _why_ then?!” He begged for an answer he was all-too-afraid of.

George shook his head, no, and Clay grabbed hold of his wrists, his father’s wrists, he would stay. He would stay. He would not lose them - _him,_ again, it was dark and faces blurred, past and present simultaneous, he choked once, twice, but the tears would not come. Tears were for loss and he was not going to lose. He’d lost - _never again. “_ That’s not how this works. Tell me or don’t, but either way, we aren’t going _anywhere._ I don’t care if it’s _fun,_ I don’t care if you’re trying to be _spontaneous._ Your idea of spontaneity is getting high and vomiting on my shoes. Trust me, I don’t want to be at this party any more than you do but we’re _not_ leaving just so you can go on a bender! Get out of the car, George.” 

_“Please,”_ he whimpered, pushed his wrists further into Clay’s grip. His hands were bandages where his father bruised him, “I _promise_ -” But he stopped himself, unable to swear what wasn’t true. He wasn’t high _now,_ but what had his intention been when he ran out of the ballroom? He couldn’t deny the subtle ache, the twitch of his hands, even between Clay’s. George settled on honesty, even if saying his name would kill him. It was fine, the other option probably would too. “Alex is here,” he breathed, and Clay peeped up at him, wide-eyed.

The bodyguard released his wrists wordlessly and tapped on the raised privacy partition that separated the front from the back. “Take us wherever he wanted to go.” 

The chauffeur protested, “But you said-”

“I know what I said. Take us _now.”_

\------------------

On neon highways, George told him about Alex. The fireworks and the champagne of it all. O'er sleeping hills he told him the lie that had ruined him. The fear and anger of it all. Through sparkling valleys, he told him of his father’s hands, how he’d broken him so many times until he sent him to a place to do it for him. The hatred and love of it all. That hatred and the love, they talk about it, and Clay yells, disturbs those sleeping hills, but he doesn’t care. “That is not love,” he says, says it over and over. “I know,” George makes sure to stay close to him, doesn’t want him imagining how he’d felt at that place, “I know.” They cry and laugh at childhood naivety, Clay shows him a picture on his phone from when he was little, he’s sat an alligator, it’s absurd. They laugh and cry again, again. They’re laughing when the car slows, and they fall over each other, down a moonlit path into the woods. Well, it’s not quite the woods but the shrubbery means it’s definitely not the city.

When they finally caught their breaths Clay noticed George huddling into himself, and pulled off his suit jacket. He had no bleeding idea why the prince was in a sweater, but it wasn’t going to cut it. He’d be fine, his blood ran hot, Floridian. 

“Oh that’s alright,” George tried to wave it away, as the taller began wrapping it around his shoulders, “I- uh, I haven’t been eating, so I’m always cold.”

Clay tsked quietly, but smiled when the prince tucked his thin arms into the sleeves, “I _noticed,_ hugging you was considerably bonier than the last time!” He teased but the words meant something between them, had their own weighted past.

“Hey!” There wasn’t much more to do but protest and run ahead, or _try_ at least, Clay’s legs were long but George’s desire to _not_ talk about the not-eating thing outgrew them.

“Hey yourself, care to explain where we are? Because it looks like a forest and if the wolves come _you’ll_ be fine, but I have to watch out - I’m good enough to eat.” He gestured at the scenery around them before jabbing a proud thumb into his chest.

 _Big, stupid thumbs._ "You’re _such_ an idiot.” Clay noted the languid roll of his eyes as light poured through the leafy roof above them. 

“Sorry, but that doesn’t sound like you telling me where the hell we are.” He matched the prince’s pace with ease, stuck out an arm to stop him short, just because he could. 

“It’s a _garden,_ Clay.” George groaned, and walked right through his arm, pointing to a sign. “Wisley, I used to come here all the time as a kid.” He looked younger in the moon’s glow, Clay thought. Maybe it was because it washed the color from his face, erased the bags from his eyes, or maybe he just seemed happy. 

The blonde strolled up behind him, his hair radiant, angelic, almost; George wasn’t even jealous. Then the angel pointed at a wood sign that hung below the main one. “Hm. It seems closed,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“No, no. See? Royal Horticultural Society, RHS; I’m HRH, it’s practically the same thing. We’re going in.” Clay’s face had skepticism written all over it, but then the prince took hold of his forearm, tugged him further down the path, “It’s _fine._ We’re going to the orchard part anyway, _trees_ can’t be closed.”

“Fair enough, it’s dark though, we’ll die just trying to get there.” The pair had already tripped several times trying to get to wherever-the-hell. “Wow,” he’d teased once, “the prince can’t walk on anything but red carpet.” Only he’d laughed at it but it’d been worth it for the annoyed glance George had thrown him. The annoyance, for the very first time, was splashed carelessly over delight. His prince was _delighted_ with him. 

“Just be patient, would you?” They’d wound their way through the labyrinth and reached the edge of a clearing. A building stood on the horizon, _was the horizon?_ The bodyguard wasn’t quite sure how until _it_ happened. As if on cue to his complaint the building- a glass house- lit up in a cacophony of George’s blue and sunset pink and blush red. It was… beautiful. The breath caught in his throat, and he turned to the prince who, like the rest of the meadow, was caught in the glow. 

_“What?!”_ The shorter was alarmingly nonchalant to his surprise, even as dimples threatened his cheeks.

Shrugging, he promenaded into the field proudly, waving Clay along, “I called in a favor on the way here, I _told_ you they like me here.”

They arrived at the tree-line, and the branches were full of candy. Apples became cotton candy, peppermint starlights, gobstoppers, in the colorful luster from the top of the hill. _Fine,_ thought Clay who wasn’t much of a sweet tooth, they’d better not have been lying when they called it ‘everlasting.’

“So,” Clay eyed some conveniently placed bags by the beginning of a row marked ‘Honey Crisp,’ “I get the escape now, but I have to ask, why here?” 

The prince, fresh bag already in hand, was knee-deep in tall grass, reaching for his first apple. “It’s an orchard!”

Clay chuckled, admiring the way his jacket looked on the prince, _his_ prince. “I- I can see that.”

He must’ve been a bit too enamored, a little too gone, because George pivoted back to him with the squeak of dewy flora. “You don’t get it?” He seemed a bit disappointed, but not awfully so. 

“Is it obvious?” Clay approached, trying to read the twinkle in his eyes. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t be… _damn,"_ he chucked another apple in the bag, “I really thought you’d like it.”

“No, I do! I just don’t understand.” The prince was only ribbing him, but Clay offered up an apple for his bag anyway. It was silly, kiddish, but George beamed at him before jumping into an explanation. 

“Well, you mentioned orange groves when we were swimming - how you liked them. And, well, I don’t think you can even grow oranges in the UK, so I figured an orchard would be second best.” He zipped between the branches, found a row called ‘Royal Gala.’

 _"Wait_ , you really had this planned?” Clay ducked under leafy boughs in unbelieving pursuit, well, he _wanted_ to believe, but only magic would’ve made it true.

And then, because the night was magic, George snorted at the sign, “Well not _this,_ but the rest- yeah, I _guess_ I did, it’s really not that much.” He was attending another tree so he didn’t see the bodyguard’s chest swell, didn’t see him bring his hands together in secretive embarrassment so he could pinch himself.

“No…” he breathed, “George this is incredible. You’re incredible for this.” The entire meadow was for him, the apples, the glow, the moon, the _magic-_ all his. It was overwhelming, and there was a chance the prince would soon move on to other apples but this row was long and the light particularly favorable. Clay collapsed onto the ground, let the grass stains start as his elbows when he propped himself up to bathe in the evening. Even without the sun, he was already burning. 

“So, you like it then,” came shyly from the shadowed figure across the way; Clay could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes, of course, _thank you."_

He watched him pick and pick and pick until his body felt as heavy as the fruit bag George was toting. Clay made him put it down, told him to go, collect, while he kept it safe. He laid down and let the dew seep into his hair, dampen the fabric on his back, a seedling, growing into the earth. Or perhaps it was the earth growing into him. _Let me be a tree,_ his mind cooed like the owl in the distance, _let me grow and let him take from me what he pleases. Let him love me like these trees, and then I will be happy._

When the prince returned with another armful of apples he stooped to arrange the comical pile spilling from the bag when Clay spoke, “You know, I had my first kiss in an orchard.” 

George hummed in accordance to each apple he repositioned, focused solely on making some semblance of architecture out of, well, apples. 

He continued, “Yeah, it didn’t last long after that, but he was older and a good enough kisser so the memory isn’t all bad.” 

The melodic neuroticism cut off in one off-tune note, _"He?"_

"Oh yeah, I’m bi, I guess. I kind of hate labels though, you know?” It was Clay’s turn to be nonchalant, though it wasn’t for effect or allure, he was just comfortable in his own skin.

George shook his head and pitched onto the ground next to him. He did _not_ know, but he was curious. 

The bodyguard spoke and gestured to the sky flush against the grass. He was too tired to hold himself up but it didn’t really matter, George stared at him intently, and though his head tilted in confusion, he nodded when appropriate. “Like, it’s really personality that matters to me, right? Not gender. So, I just go with bi; my mom doesn’t quite get it, and my sister _tries_ to, but it’s a bit more complicated to explain when you’ve only ever dated men. It’s a coincidence but-”

The prince was fiddling with the apples now, voice a little too loud, too concerned for it to be asked purely out of polite conversational etiquette. “How did you know? How- how do you know…” he trailed off, afraid of the word. 

“If you’re gay?” He was every bad coming of age movie all at once, except it was the _fucking Prince of England_ \- Clay wheezed - he couldn’t help it. “Well, if you’re asking that question there’s a pretty good chance you already have the answer.” It was decent advice, and he’d meant it to be light but a quick check of George’s face was a reflection of his teenage self.

 _Shit._ He’d probably cursed out the first guilty google search that brought up the same telling results. Clay tried to muster the conversation that would’ve been best suited for him, “Well, alright, so your first kiss was with Alex-” _Personal, Jesus._ He went to correct it and found himself surprised at the authoritative air his voice had taken, it seemed- effective. 

“He kissed _me."_ George shot back defiantly. 

“Yes,” Clay conceded to the constellations, and then to his prince, “and you kissed him back.” It wasn’t accusing or cruel, simply the truth to be pondered. 

Misty silence fell between them until the bodyguard prompted him again, “Have you liked girls in the past or- _now?" Ok, cool it on that._ It was a fair question but strangled with unsung jealousy toward the end.

“Oh, well that’s _totally_ different-” George puffed, allowing confidence to seep in, “Mum’s set me up on so many dates- I’ve never had the chance.”

 _Oh, George, sweet, innocent prince.“_ But you had time to like Alex?” Clay watched the triumph in his expression overturn in a second. 

“That’s entirely different.” He snapped. “I was young then.” 

“So, you’ve _never_ liked another boy then?” Clay sat himself back up, desirous to a front-row seat to the panic that flurried across the prince’s face. 

“Well,” he paused to think, “how would I know?” He looked at the bodyguard with heartbreaking apprehension, if it was a trap he’d already been snared and Clay saw the anguished intrigue that was his downfall.

He raised a teasing eyebrow, offered a gentle smile to ease him, remind him of the laughter they’d shared that evening, or even when he’d yelled in the car on the way over. He’d cared then too, he hadn’t stopped now - that was sort of the point. “How do you know you _don’t_ like them?”

Relief flooded through the prince and he flopped to the ground, hugging into himself, appreciating the warmth of Clay’s jacket. “Just tell me already!” He whined.

“George it’s different for everyone- that’s _personal."_ But as they lay end to end, hip to hip, they both felt the intimacy between them, even if they didn’t want to acknowledge it, even if it came in the form of a teetering mountain of apples. 

“Oh my god, _personal_ is your fingers down my throat. I’m not asking for your life story- just tell me about orchard boy.” 

_“Fine._ Ok. Let me think.” The prince’s crudeness caught Clay off guard in the best way, and he took a full minute just to smile to himself. George was content to wait, and they lay in hushed tranquility until he’d pieced together the words…“I think I had an idea when his happiness became mine, seeing him smile made _me_ smile. When I started making time for him, began thinking of jokes to tell him the next time we met. When everything I read somehow connected back to him- it could’ve been Catullus or some dumb Instagram caption - but suddenly he was there, _always,_ I couldn’t get him out of my head, you know?”

“Yeah,” He most certainly did but still something ached, “but you didn’t feel… wrong?”

Clay tensed, it stung to know how George had been hurt, manipulated, _"No-_ no. It’s the most _right_ feeling I think I’ve ever felt - I didn’t have to fake anything.” 

“Okay, but you weren’t guilty for feeling like that for… _him?”_ His voice was small as a part of him knew how foolish he sounded, while another part, _not_ -George, screamed just loud enough that it might be important.

“No, who says I should?”

“I dunno… God?” Suddenly, George felt minuscule, him and Clay and the whole earth, seconds away from being crushed under some disapproving thumb. He shouldn’t even be- 

“Fuck him!” Clay was flipping off the sky, arm raised so they could both see it, glowing, among the stars. The absolute absurdity of it, his fucking _audacity,_ it shocked him, every part. _Every part_ off and back on again, a restart. 

“George,” he was raising his voice like he had in the car. The prince didn’t usually like that but when Clay did it he felt safe. "I _cannot_ emphasize this enough - Fuck _that._ Damn me to hell before I start living this life on the whim that there _might_ be another one after it. _That’s_ tragic.”

“I suppose that’s true but-”

“Oh, come on now, why the fuck would I let some _book_ define my life? Why would you let it define yours? Honestly, George, one page of some mistranslated _story_ isn’t worth your life.”

A part of him was fighting the restart, and the words came strangled from his throat, _"Yes,_ but what is then? Because my father, _everyone,_ keeps telling me I know _what_ I am - but I _don’t,_ and it’s killing me because that isn’t even the question I’m asking myself. He says ‘what’ but to _who?_ Some days I go crazy with the questions; _who am I,_ Clay? _Who am I?!_ The not knowing - it cracks me open, drinks me up - right when I’m trying to be _everything,_ please _everyone._ I’m hollow again, and so full of nothing at the same time.” He offered the entirety of himself to the God above, His crushing thumb. Would it come? Everything in him screamed ‘NO!’ But one part whispered, ‘yes.’ “Some days- sometimes I wish I were dead.” He was falling again, further, farther than ever before. _Good, GOOD. TAKE ME!_ Words were meaningless, line after line, blurring into oblivion. Everything he’d said, everything said to him. He never. Expected. To land…

The pillow was navy and gold, and it smelled a lot like Clay’s jacket. It was named, “Tonight?”

George nodded in quiet bewilderment, leaned himself up on the pillow to look around the recesses of his mind, leaned himself up on the grass to look at Clay. 

“Then why are we here, George? Why tell me about Alex?” Asked the man who saved him, from going _splat_ into the ground, twice. 

“Well,” he was getting used to words again, they felt less profound than before, “At first it was because the worse I feel the better the high is,” Clay hummed, encouraging him to continue, unaware he was like a kid on training wheels with these new words. “And then it was because I wanted someone to know, I guess, and I wanted to say goodbye to this place-”

That worried him. Clay propped himself up, “And now? There’s an ‘and now’ isn’t there?”

There hadn’t been a minute ago, but George was finishing the final stages of ‘restart,’ “ _And now_ it’s ‘cause it feels good, to be honest, feels good to do something for someone other than me- I’ve been _so fucking selfish,_ Clay…”

The other man sat fully up, wrapped a hand around George’s forearm that _wasn’t_ burning for the wrong reasons. It was the first time. “Hey, _hey,_ stop there, you do realize you don’t _need_ to be everything? You don’t. What you said before- _that’s_ who you are. You’re steadfast, strong, like a mountain; caring, compassionate, _sweet_ like an apple.” Phil’s words were comfort on his lips for the second time that night, and the prince found himself leaning, uninhibited by any guilt, into Clay’s grasp. He drew his hand from his arm down to his wrist, finally settling as their fingers intertwined, “And, George, for right now, you’re lonely as the stars, wandering in the night. You aren’t selfish- you’re trying to find your way home.” He said it in hushed whisper, afraid to admit the hours it had taken to come to that conclusion. He’d known it for so long it almost felt like giving up part of himself. _Let me grow and let him take from me what he pleases. Let him love me like these trees, and then I will be happy._

“I’m all of those things?” George asked breathlessly. The restart was complete, everything was blissfully quiet, his mind was entirely _his._

Clay squeezed his hand and laughed at the clarity, “All of those things are _you."_ His prince beamed as he handed him an apple from the bushel between them, “See how sweet you are…”

“It isn’t washed!”

“Just try it,” he groaned in feign defeat, “for the love of God, you haven’t eaten in a week.” They were back to teasing and George unfurled his hand from Clay’s so he could accept the apple. 

He giggled, twirling around the fateful fruit, leaning in for fake bites here and there as Clay rolled his eyes. “Shit,” he sighed dramatically, “I should’ve asked the favor to wash the damn apples before we got here, there just wasn’t enough time.”

“Oh, I seeee,” Clay’s brow twitched before he flopped back on the flattened patch of ground, “so we _weren’t_ supposed to be here tonight.” 

“Yeah, this was, er- this was the backup.” It was embarrassing to admit, not that they were here, but that _here_ had ever been second choice, or third, or maybe, possibly, not even on the list at one point. 

“Ha. I had a feeling.” 

“I know.” George admired the vicissitude of Clay’s face in the light. He was softer now, peaceful.

“You still could’ve gone out to your _club_ or whatever. I wouldn’t have known until we got there, probably couldn’t have stopped you either.” He wasn’t angry, it was merely a truth to be pondered.

“I know.” George wasn’t the one pondering the truth.

A comfortable quiet came between them, George having shared just enough, and Clay nudging closer just in case he decided to say more.

They lay end to end. George raised the apple to his mouth, ready to eat. Clay wasn’t even watching but the sound of the fruit’s fizzing flesh would be apology enough, assurance enough, that there was nowhere else he’d rather go. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t much help otherwise, truth is I didn’t _really_ know ‘till I kissed him,” Clay mumbled in a way that would have been off-topic if tonight hadn’t spanned their entire lives. 

“No it- you helped, honestly.” His mouth was full of apple, and the fast was broken, sweet truth blooming on his tongue. 

“Really, you ever felt like that, George?” He snarked, waiting for the ‘no,’ another vague denial.

“Yeah…” the prince admitted between bites. 

_"Really_?” Clay shot up, it was a question both for George and whatever the fuck he was doing. The prince sucked absentmindedly on a knuckle, collecting the juice that had run down his wrist.

His prince nodded, red as the apple. He wouldn’t meet his gaze but it was enough, _this,_ was enough. 

“About a guy?” Clay told himself he wouldn’t take anymore, wouldn’t dare steal from the universe like that, the moment was made of stardust, and he prayed it wasn’t an illusion- a dead star foolishly admired from earth. Not real, just light. But he couldn’t help it, stole some of the light, rolled it over in his hands before watching as it illuminated George’s pale skin, glanced off his apple. 

“Yes.” It was real, the light was real. If only to them. 

“Huh, cool.” He laid back down, exhausted, he was a tree and a man and stardust, he was it all and all of it was him. The universe was lenient tonight, perhaps it had a soft spot for young love.

_Let me be a tree, let me grow, and let him take from me what he pleases. Let him love me like these trees, and then I will be happy._

“Hey, Clay?” There was something unrecognizable in George’s voice, and he hoped to God it wasn’t the beginning of an allergy attack. Oh, he would be so _fucked_ if the prince went into anaphylactic shock in some meadow. His mind roiled with possibilities, he was _nervous._

“Yeah?”

“Come have a taste of this apple, it’s brilliant.” His words were honey and crisp.

“Alright,” he sat up, and his eyes traced every inch of the prince’s body, his empty hands. He took one in gentle confusion, “you’ve eaten it all.”

Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. George grinned slyly, _"Yeah,_ come have a taste.”

“George?” Clay leaned in, saw it in his eyes, this was _his_ George, his prince with the glow, 

“Clay.” The shorter tilted his head up, jutted his chin just softly enough it could’ve been unintentional.

“George,” he murmured, the trees echoed in leafy whispers. _George._

_"Clay."_ The prince smiled, brought the blonde’s other hand up to his cheek, put the weight of his face against it.

They were close enough that they shared each other’s breaths, George’s eyes flicked down and his eyelashes fanned prettily as Clay traced the edge of his lip with his thumb. Their chests were inches apart, and each could practically hear the other’s heartbeat. “I _shouldn’t,”_ He breathed against the prince’s smirk.

"What, have a taste? By _all means,_ it was delicious… sweet… sugary… _soft.”_ He slurred his S’s until Clay was so drunk on him that he didn’t even notice when he wasn’t talking about the apple anymore, that maybe he never had been.

 _“Fuck,"_ he sighed.

George was warmed to melting with excitement, love, Clay’s jacket, he was melting and _Let me,_ he thought, _let me burn for all I care. Hell can have me but I’d burn the world for_ him. He closed his eyes, swaying at the head rush that came with each centimeter of distance disappearing between them, between their lips. 

And then,

And then,

Clay’s phone buzzed, deep in his jacket pocket, and George pulled away, fishing it out to answer. “Hello?” He thumped back softly onto the grass to prevent Clay from swiping it out of his hands. The prince smiled and nodded theatrically into the line as the man opposite him broke, eyes dark with want.

From the other end came an unfamiliar voice, “Dude, pull your tongue out of the prince’s throat and get back to Buckingham- _now._ They found Alistair and they’re bringing hi-” Apple sap felt sticky, dirty on his lips and the bodyguard silently protested as George wiped it away. _Dude,_ his mind raced, he’d told one of his “dudes” about them. _Fuck,_ there wasn’t even a ‘them’ to speak of and it was already ruined. How, _how could he have been so stupid? Even now,_ with everything the _dude_ on the other end was saying, all he could think of was the missed opportunity, Clay’s lips on his. _Selfish. Fucking selfish-_ “You need to come back _tonight,"_ the man reiterated once more before George hung up. 

“What is it?” He asked, so tenderly, so carefully as the prince stood. 

George’s blood ran cold in his veins as he stripped off the jacket, throwing it at Clay’s stomach.

“We need to go- my brother’s coming home- _he’s alive."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello. Did you think they were going to kiss? In this slowburn fic? Ha.  
> I'm sorry, but we had to find out what was going on with Alastair. The summary said so :)
> 
> A torrent of gratitude to @jubilee_line here for giving advice and editing this chapter. Go read her work! She's become an excellent friend over the past few weeks, and I can guarantee this chapter wouldn't be as good if she hadn't had a hand in it. Honorable mentions to her truly phenomenal playlists that were my soundtrack to the many, many hours it took to write and edit this. Thanks, Arti <3
> 
> And many, many thanks to you, everyone who's taken the time to read, or comment, or reach out. Truly, it means so much <3  
> If you ever have a question, message, etc. you can't put in the comments feel free to dm me on twitter @skeleemon :)
> 
> Next chapter in 1-2 weeks. Probably not 1, this week has a lot going on lmao

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading :) I hope you enjoy  
> I'm kind of rusty on the whole writing thing, so hopefully it will get better.  
> Not sure if I will consistently do super long chapters like this but we will see I guess.  
> Any feedback/ideas are welcome :)


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